


But boys spring infernal

by amorremanet



Series: a gnawing feeling leaves you quite unsure [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: (in the past; discussed in chapter 10), Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Punk, Angst and Humor, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Anorexic Shiro (Voltron), Anxiety Attacks, Autistic Keith (Voltron), Chapter 20 is The Smut Chapter, Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, Depressed Keith (Voltron), Eating Disorders, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Families of Choice, Flashbacks, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Keith (Voltron) Has PTSD - Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, Keith (Voltron) is Bad at Feelings, Keith (Voltron) is a Mess, Love Confessions, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mildly Dubious Consent, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, POV Alternating, Panic Attacks, Past Abuse, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Past Allura/Keith (Voltron), Past Child Abuse, Past Drug Addiction, Past Lotor/Shiro (Voltron), Past Sendak/Shiro (Voltron), Relationship Negotiation, Reunions, Shiro (Voltron) And Kuron Are Brothers, Shiro (Voltron) Has PTSD - Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, Shiro (Voltron) is a Mess, Shiro Has Long Hair, Slow Burn, Sobriety, Texting, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, twinganes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-05
Updated: 2018-02-21
Packaged: 2018-12-11 15:52:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 408,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11717574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amorremanet/pseuds/amorremanet
Summary: Four-and-a-half years ago, Keith lost the friend he was in love with, searched for any trace of Shiro, and found nothing. Resigned to never seeing him again, Keith honored a request that Shiro sent him: he tried to move on. He took a scholarship package and moved to Massachusetts. He tried to make himself a new life.Now, Keith’s a broke, autistic history student at Kaltenecker University. He has trauma he doesn’t acknowledge, a depressive downswing that he’s ignoring, his Mom’s old knife, and a support network of about two people (his ex-girlfriend, Allura, and Kolivan, his academic advisor). His life’s a mess and his apartment’s a shit-hole, but at least they’rehis.Then, Keith yells at the punk band keeping him awake at four in the morning and the last thing that he expected drops into his life. Namely: Shiro, with long hair and new scars, but clean, sober, and away from his abusive ex. Worse, Shiro seemshappyto have found Keith again.This joy wouldn’t be bad if it made sense, but to Keith, it absolutely doesn’t. Shiroshouldn’twant Keith back in his life after what happened between them in Chicago, and there is definitely no way that Shiro ever loved Keith back — right?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have nothing to say for myself and no idea where this thinks it’s going, but it’s brought to you by the fact that shaggy, long-haired!Shiro/Kuron/whoever apparently makes me crave Sheith-flavored punk AUs, with grungy punk Shiro and beleaguered college student Keith.
> 
> Unbeta’d, so all mistakes are mine. The title comes from a lyric in Pansy Division’s song, “[Expiration Date](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ty7ZsEaHI04).”

“Okay, guys. How about let’s take it from the top again? And, uh, try to sound _better_ this time?”

Even though he knows the people tormenting him can’t hear him, Keith groans and slams his fist against his desk. The cheap, secondhand lamp rattles, briefly threatens to fall off the edge, then settles down. Rubbing his eyes, Keith glares down at his notes on _Jane Eyre_ , and they might as well be in Ancient Greek, with how much they’re swimming for him right now. Another yawn slips loose as he glances at the alarm clock beside him. Its red digital display reads back _04:06 AM_ like it gets some perverse joy out of Keith’s current misery. Knowing his luck, it probably does.

For the umpteen-thousandth time tonight, some loud, boisterous asshole in the garage below his shitty little apartment calls out, _“And one! Two! One, two, three, four!”_

The drums come first, banging out a rhythm that Keith couldn’t make heads or tails of, even if he _had_ gotten a decent night’s sleep this week. Next, comes the keyboardist, who makes no sense as part of a punk band (last Keith heard, this genre was supposed to be _stripped down_ or something), but at least they actually know how to play. If not for constantly interrupting his ability to rest, Keith could probably forgive the bassist, who only sounds garden variety inept. But the lead guitarist charges into the song like a stampede trampling an entire row of china shops. Whoever they are, they make their instrument wail like a cat that’s having its neck broken, and can’t stay on-tempo to save their life.

Keith never made it far in music lessons. His second set of foster parents tried so hard to make him learn, but Keith utterly failed to understand a lick of anything his poor teacher ever threw his way. Lessons ended after one afternoon’s practice, when his red plastic recorder had wound up mysteriously embedded in the basement wall. Still, even he can tell that it takes dedication to suck as hard as this band’s guitarist.

 _“Are you sure those Galaxy Garrison punks are **really** all that bad?”_ Allura asked him over lunch the other day, after she’d spent the majority of their Gothic Literary Traditions And Society lecture nudging him so he wouldn’t fall asleep. _“I certainly don’t begrudge you being annoyed that they’re so disrespectful. But perhaps you might enjoy the music more under other circumstances.”_

Not to be spiteful or anything, but Keith wishes that she were here right now. That’d settle the matter pretty easily. About the only redeeming feature of this alleged music, is that the singer doesn’t suck. Sure, their diction leaves a bit to be desired, and if they helped write the lyrics, then they could’ve done better than all of this derivative _man, fuck the system but not in a nice way_ garbage. But vocally, they’re almost decent.

Still, if Keith could spare the cash, he’d literally pay them to stop singing.

He’s twisting the tab off another can of Mountain Dew as the song abruptly stops. The drums drop out first, then the keyboards, then the strings. The singer cuts short a scream that Keith guesses is supposed to sound artfully anguished. Keith almost lets himself breathe easier. But the chorus of yelling is ten times worse:

“Hey, what’s going—”

“Dammit, Lance, you missed the cue again!”

“Don’t look at me! I was following Pidge!”

“Whoa, hey, excuse you! Since when are _your_ screw-ups suddenly _my_ fault?!”

“Dude, you have to get the cue right or I won’t know when the tempo-shift’s supposed to happen!”

“Stow it, guys! Battle of the Bands is in three weeks, and we’re not gonna beat The Ultraviolents unless we _work together_ and focus on the practice.”

Cringing, Keith digs his fingers into the bridge of his nose. In the back of his mind, a voice that sounds way too much like Allura’s Dad tells him not to grind his teeth, but that only makes Keith do so harder. Whatever, Coran’s not here to chastise him in person, and _he_ doesn’t have to deal with these jack-offs for several hours every single night. He, and Allura, and her Father get to live in a nice townhouse uptown, in a swank building that Keith can’t even look at without feeling underdressed and vaguely nauseated. If anyone like Galaxy Garrison ever tried to hold their shitty band practice at this hour of the night, Alfor and Coran could call the cops and get an actual response.

Keith, on the other hand, can only rely on himself. It’s always been that way, but has gotten truer since he moved in here.

Although the singer’s attempt at a rousing speech should’ve cut this nonsense off, the other three keep shouting. Keith hears the words, but for the moment, they make no sense. Next thing he knows, he’s stomping out into the hall. He doesn’t slam the door, because it might bother Rolo and Nyma in the other flat, and unlike some people, Keith at least tries to respect his neighbors, even when they’re overly friendly and perpetually stink like weed and stale hot dogs.

But that’s about the only thing that Keith can spare a thought for, heading to the rickety stairs, practically on autopilot. He’s halfway down before he notices that he isn’t wearing shoes. God, he hopes there isn’t too much broken glass around tonight.

“Guys, listen up!” the singer cuts in again, as Keith pauses on the bottom stair to yawn. “I know we’re all tired, and I know we’ve all been working hard. But none of us is any better or worse than the others — and we’re only as strong as our ability to work together. This band can’t do well by our music, much less win anything, if we’re fighting like Lennon and McCartney all the time, okay?”

“Oh my god, fucking _Beatles_ references? _Really_?” groans another one. “Dude, could you sound any _more_ like my _abuela_?”

“Lance, I’ve known your _abuela_ since we were six, and I have never heard her once talk about the Beatles, or speak anything but Spanish.”

“Totally not the point, Hunk!”

From the sound of it, this Lance one kicks a can against the nearest wall. Keith huffs, closing in on the door.

“All I’m saying is that I can’t get my cues right if _Pidge_ keeps trying all this overly complicated bullshit and—”

“ _Do you assholes have **ANY** idea what fucking **time** it is?!_ ”

It’s not until he’s spit it out that Keith realizes how loud he was. Hovering in the doorway into the garage, he almost regrets that. But he can’t show these punks any weakness or they’ll keep on doing this. So, he glares at them. First, at the big guy behind the drums (who’s cute, actually, with his floppy hair and his belly and his big, strong arms; he looks like someone Keith might not mind, under other circumstances). He wilts as Keith frowns at him, and the way he hangs his head kicks Keith in the regret again.

The petite, bedheaded keyboardist calls a glare her way next, but only because she pipes up, “ _Excuse_ me?”

Seething, Keith steps out of the doorway. “I said, ‘Do you assholes have any idea what fucking time it is’?” He folds his arms over his chest. “It’s not a hard question, thanks.”

“Well, what if we don’t want to answer it, man!” The one called Lance is tall and spindly, and looks like a guy Keith might consider going home with, if he’d had a couple drinks and felt particularly lonely. “I mean, who the Hell are _you_ to tell us what time it is, anyway!”

“I’m the guy who lives upstairs, jackass,” Keith snaps. “I’m the guy who lives upstairs who would rather be _asleep_ , instead of dealing with you little shits at four in the fucking morning—”

“Hey, we talked to the other two, and they didn’t mind—”

“I’m not them, though, am I? And unlike _them_ , I can’t afford to knock myself out on cough syrup just to sleep through all your goddamn _racket_.”

“‘All our goddamn _racket_ ’?” Lance drawls back in a mocking tone. He even folds his arms like Keith and cocks a hip. Glancing over at the singer, he says, “ _Asere_ , come get this! He sounds even more like my _abuela_ than you do. What’s next, man? Are you gonna tell us to get off of your lawn?”

“I don’t _have_ a lawn, you idiot. I _barely_ have an apartment.”

As Lance and Hunk and Pidge barely manage to hold back their laughter, it occurs to Keith that maybe he should not have taken that insult literally. His cheeks flush hot, and his ears start tingling, because of course, his entire head has to blush in situations like this. Whatever he’s doing, it makes the Pidge one snicker, and when he glares at her again, she doesn’t even try to stop.

Hugging himself tighter, Keith groans and turns toward the singer, ready to verbally eviscerate him, since as far as Keith can tell, he’s the ringleader. The other three respect him (more or less), and in the past few nights’ rehearsals, he’s the one who’s made the most decisions about what songs to go over and who was right or wrong about which dispute or other. This means that _he’s_ the most responsible for this mess out of all of them, and the one who most deserves Keith’s outrage. But the words all die before Keith’s even spit out one of them.

The guy in front of him probably has a good six inches on Keith in height, and the body of someone who you wouldn’t want to mess with. Sure, his ripped jeans hang low on his slim hips, but his weathered Pansy Division crop top shows off a pretty toned set of abs. Even worse, the ripped sleeves highlight a _really nice_ set of arms. There’s a gnarled, nasty-looking scar on the right one, up by the singer’s shoulder, and another one, Keith notices, that goes across his nose and cheeks. Now that he sees it, he can’t believe he’d ever miss it, but in fairness, the singer’s hair skirts past his shoulders with a devil-may-care ease about it, mostly black, except for the shaggy forelock that he’s bleached white.

Keith frowns as he takes in the guy’s face. Something about it seems… _familiar_? But that makes no sense, or does it? Whatever it is, Keith can’t place it. He would remember a jaw like that, and definitely that scar… Maybe he has one of those faces? Or maybe he was in a local commercial? Or—

“Keith?” the singer says, his voice soft and his eyes wide. His lower lip quivers and he knots his brow…

—and realization slams into Keith, and makes him freeze. No, that can’t be right. This singer can’t be who Keith thinks he is, and that person can’t be here — this cannot be happening, because that’s bullshit — even if it weren’t, things like this don’t happen to Keith — _this cannot be happening_ —

“…Keith, right?” he says again. “Keith Kogane?”

Hunching his shoulders, Keith whispers, “…Shiro?” — but he knows it can’t be, because that’s stupid, because Shiro’s gone and things like this don’t happen to Keith. They just do not. Ever. Never, ever in his life has anything like this happened, so why would it decide to happen _now_.

Except the singer beams at him, and Keith would know that smile if he were blackout drunk. He wrestles his guitar off of himself and hands it off to Lance, and before Keith knows which way is up, there’s a heavy hand on his shoulder. That lasts for maybe half a second, then he’s getting pulled into Shiro’s chest and hugged as though Shiro’s life depends on it. Keith’s heart is going so fast, it feels like maybe it just stopped beating. This _can’t_ be happening. This can’t be happening. There is no way in Hell — Keith must’ve bummed some Nyquil off of Rolo after all, and now he’s passed out upstairs, and he is dreaming some truly fucked up dreams, because this. Shit. Cannot. Be _happening_.

But Shiro squeezes so tight, it starts to hurt. He lets up and mumbles an apology when Keith wriggles, then tells him, “I thought I’d never see you again…”

It takes Keith a moment to nod, then another one to even think of saying anything. When he gets his mouth around the words, all he can come up with is, “I didn’t… Me neither.”

Dimly, Keith’s just glad that Shiro buries his face in his shoulder instead of asking why Keith sounds weird right now. Keith might be on the spectrum, but even he knows better than to admit that what he’s really thinking is more like, _Oh, fuck my life_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I literally tossed this first bit off in about an hour-and-a-half after watching season three and a few episodes of Parks and Rec, so I can guarantee you that there is no plan here whatsoever. I am 5,000% making this up as I go. Your guess about what happens next is as good as, if not better than, mine.
> 
> ……Except about chapter two, since I’ve started that one and I know that it involves: Keith and Allura getting dinner; Keith and Allura talking about the events of this chapter; Keith very deliberately trying to avoid talking about The Takashi Shirogane Issue; some discussion of Keith’s backstory; and phone numbers scribbled on the backs of people’s hands. Not necessarily in that order, but whatever.
> 
> Also, running tally of characters who have been referenced: Alfor and Coran are married, and Allura’s Father and Dad, respectively; Rolo and Nyma are the quirky stoners who live down the hall from Keith, and aren’t really bad people, just overly friendly, which Keith finds disconcerting for reasons that are like 80-85% in his head; and Lotor, Axca, Ezor, Narti, and Zethrid are a rival band calling themselves, “The Ultraviolents,” because Lotor and Ezor think that Clockwork Orange references are hilarious and make them sound Very Intelligent.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still unbeta’d. Still largely being made up as I go with only a vague sense of where things are going. Still have nothing to say for myself.
> 
> Not that this will stop me from saying something anyway. Namely: trying to make Allura a literal princess felt too complicated, so instead, Alfor is a diplomat and their family is ridiculously wealthy. Like, so much so that Coran could totally get away with _not working ever_ , and literally only has a job because he wants to be doing something and he genuinely enjoys working in Student Life on a uni campus.
> 
> Allura just wound up with the nickname, “Princess” because Keith is bad at learning names, took about six weeks to get hers down, and felt like she _should_ be a literal princess, so that’s what he called her. The nickname stuck because Allura likes it.

By the time Shiro’s done hugging him _hello, it must’ve been forever_ in front of three gawking onlookers, Keith can barely stand on his own feet. For once, though, he’s grateful of his own exhaustion. Sure, Keith can’t get out of the garage until he lets Shiro borrow Hunk’s pen and scribble a number on the back of his hand, but by the time he’s up in his room, the only noise downstairs is Galaxy Garrison packing up for the evening.

As his head hits the pillow, Keith’s certain that he hears Lance demanding, _“How the Hell do you know that guy anyway?”_ but if Shiro answers, Keith mercifully doesn’t hear it.

_Un_ mercifully, however, he doesn’t rouse until someone’s banging on his door. This is unprecedented enough that Keith might’ve woken up on the other side of a looking-glass. Outside, it’s too bright for when he should’ve been up, which makes Keith bury his face in the pillow like that’ll fix everything for him. But it doesn’t. The light doesn’t change, and the knocking doesn’t stop. Groaning, he frowns at the alarm clock and the display reads, _4:37 PM_.

But grimacing doesn’t make the clock get its act together, and before he can do anything else, whoever’s trying to get his attention shouts, “I know you’re in there, Keith. I heard your phone ringing!”

Dammit… _Allura_. Probably one of the only people Keith would feel bad about ignoring. Especially when she sounds like she’s trying to keep having faith in him, while he’s only making it difficult.

Her face falls as soon as he slumps against the door-frame, though she says nothing about him answering the door in his boxers, his bedhead, and the shirt that he wore yesterday. It almost makes Keith wish he hadn’t opened up. But playing dead would be cruel, considering that Allura actually considers him a friend. Moreover, she puts up with his lack of social graces and doesn’t think any less of him when he gets ticked off about things that in all likelihood don’t matter. She came all the way down here in a pair of modest heels that are probably seeing more dirt than they ever have before, with a Gucci bag hanging on her shoulder. Her little cotton candy pink dress is cute, and must’ve cost more than Keith’s monthly rent. No one else in Keith’s life right now would do that for him, whether they’re as rich as she is or not.

Before Keith lets her in, though, they have something to clear up: “How did you find out where I live?” he says, and hides a yawn behind his hand.

“I pulled your student records while Coran was in a meeting with Dean Zarkon,” she says primly. “Last time you missed class, you didn’t get the notes or assignments from anybody, so this time, I took initiative myself.”

Allura shrugs and rolls her eyes as though it’s perfectly normal, using your Dad’s computer to find the shit-hole that one of your friends calls home. Glancing over Keith’s shoulder, she forces a smile. “Your place is… nice? Minimalistic. Cozy. Maybe a bit unrefined, but… I don’t know, it seems very _you_?”

Knowing her, she’s probably trying to be reassuring, but… “Nobody’s holding a gun to your head, Princess.” Keith sighs and flips some stray hair off his face. “I live on the wrong side of town, in a building that’s falling apart. The entire floor constantly stinks like my neighbors’ pot, even when they aren’t smoking any. It’s a grime-coated trash-pit that’s _vaguely_ shaped like an apartment. You don’t have to pretend to like it. I won’t get offended.”

She takes a deep breath like she’s getting ready to say something huge, but all she does is slouch and pout at him. “This place is utterly _appalling_ , Keith. How can you stand to live here?”

Retreating to his bed and trusting her to follow him in, he tells her, “It’s a roof over my head, and I can afford it on my own. Believe it or not, I’ve lived in places worse than this.”

Rifling through his basket of clean clothes, Keith half-chuckles at his own understatement. _“Lived in worse places”_ is so overly polite a statement that it’s functionally meaningless. He doesn’t remember much about his Mom, but he doesn’t think he had a bad life when she was still in it. Then, his Dad gave him a good home after Mom disappeared, but before too long, Dad went missing, just like she did. Mom’s aunt who took Keith in was pretty fine, until she died, then his first foster parents weren’t that bad, either. But they also didn’t know how to handle him and he rubbed out their absolute last nerves, so they sent him back as soon as possible.

Maybe that’s a bit of an oversimplification. But it’s how the situation felt to Keith, and it’s not like anything after that got better.

When he was eleven, Keith ran away from his second foster home to try and find his Mom, and spent a week sleeping in an abandoned bus station before his case-worker found out. When he was fourteen, his third set of foster parents went on a second honeymoon and trusted their son to watch Keith for a week, but Bryce invited his girlfriend over and locked Keith out, so Keith climbed the backyard fence and crashed in the neighbor kids’ tree house. When he aged out of the system, it didn’t matter that he was still in high school; his fourth foster dad gave him a card with two hundred dollars cash inside, and told him to get out. Keith spent most of his eighteenth birthday packing what he could carry, then trying to bum a ride out of town. He didn’t get to sleep until about 2 AM, maybe 2:30, somewhere on the Interstate and heading east, riding in the passenger seat of an eighteen-wheeler driven by a guy with a 70’s porn-stache, who kept twitching like he might’ve been on meth.

“Sorry,” he says, looking at the floor and not Allura, shifting a hand-me-down Princess Leia t-shirt aside so he can see what’s underneath. Nothing he wants to wear, that’s what. “I swear, I never _mean_ to dump this junk on you…”

Hell, if Allura had brought Shay with her, Keith likely wouldn’t be saying anything unless directly prompted. Shay’s nice, and he’d never say she isn’t. She treats Allura well and makes her happy, and actually enjoys posing for borderline obnoxious happy couple Snapchats. But she isn’t someone Keith can _really_ talk to, yet. Could she get there? Maybe. But she’s not there yet, and Keith has no idea when she might be.

With a sigh, Keith shoves the basket at the wall. It’s probably not worth it to change clothes, at this point. He’d only make them dirty quicker, and Allura already knows that he slept all day. Grabbing his jeans off the floor, he looks back up at her, expecting some kind of witty rejoinder about how beggars can’t be choosers, or how this conga-line of bullshit in his past must have built up character. Even a huff and a crisp, _“Well, I suppose that explains a good deal about you, doesn’t it?”_ would be fine. Instead, Allura’s staring at him, wide-eyed and pursing her lips, with an expression that’s even harder to read than most people’s at any given moment.

“Everything’s fine, okay, Princess?” he says. “Yeah, this place sucks, but I have my scholarships now, and I’m going to school, and I haven’t slept in someone’s car for a few years.”

For some reason, this makes Allura frown and put her hands on her hips in the way she always does when she means business. But she pointedly says nothing, and the sheer amount of _disapproval_ she can pack into that silence is more uncomfortable than anything else, so far, about this conversation. In a close second place: the fact that she’s gotten a good, long look at Keith’s soft but skinny legs. Not that he’d normally mind Allura seeing him in some state of undress — she’s seen more of his body before, but she’s dating Shay now, and neither she nor Keith wants to get back together — but if she’s already mad at him, Allura might jump on anything she can to pick at.

Keith pulls his jeans on. “…So, can I please get the notes from class today? Since you came all this way and everything?”

Allura hums, pretending to consider it, then nods. “As long as you come outside and let me buy you dinner. I can tell you’ve been living off beef jerky and peanut butter sandwiches again.”

“I’ve been living off of what I can afford, okay?” he tells her.

Still, he grabs his wallet and puts on his shoes. As much as he hates bumming off Allura, Keith’s in no position to refuse free dinner.

*** * ***

True to her status as the closest Keith’s ever gotten to an actual, real-life princess, Allura spends five minutes at a crosswalk, looking for a cab to flag down. When Keith reminds her that most cabs don’t come this way because most people in this neighborhood can’t afford to take them, she huffs like she’s offended at reality for doing something other than what she expected. He’d be fine with walking up the block to the shawarma place where they know his name and usual order, but Allura’s pouting at her phone before Keith can voice that possibility.

They make it to the next Green Line bus in time, but only because she decides that Keith looks too pale to wait for a ride from whatever Uber alternative Shay has her girlfriend using this week. At least Allura’s only complaints about this are that Keith really does seem woozy, and that she almost doesn’t find her bus pass. He’d try telling her it’s no big deal and honestly, he feels fine. But the last time he said anything like that, he conked out on her laptop’s keyboard in the middle of their poli sci study group. If precedent holds, saying, _“I actually had an okay dinner last night, so please don’t get too carried away, okay?”_ would make her worry more than anything.

Even after about four years as friends, Keith’s still not totally accustomed to how much Allura cares about other people. He understands it even less when that concern decides to fall on him. Sometimes, though, it’s easier to keep his confusion to himself and let her win.

On the ride, Allura shoves her phone at his face and tries to sell him on some expensive bistro about halfway between campus and her family’s place, one of those self-insistently hip places with an official Instagram account. Based on the reviews, it sounds like they care about making food that looks good when they post it online, more than about making food that actually tastes good. Practically everyone gave it at least three of the little dollar signs, so it’s not expensive enough for Allura to think about, but Keith bets that even their classmates who come from financially stable backgrounds would stick to the appetizer menu and nothing else.

Fortunately, there’s photo evidence that shows how the bistro skimps on portions. Debating Allura over cost might not work, but if she really wants to make sure he eats enough, then she shouldn’t be taking him somewhere that charges thirty bucks for a two-ounce chicken cutlet and a half-scoop of some weird-ass salad substitute.

“This whole menu sounds like sensory Hell and then some, too,” he tells her, trying not to scowl at her phone too much. “Why would you even make an apple-flavored coleslaw with poppyseed vinaigrette? Why would you then put horseradish, coconut, and jicama into an apple-flavored coleslaw?”

Allura purses her lips in the way that Keith’s come to know as her _Oh, right, other people did not grow up fabulously wealthy_ face, which is pretty cute, most of the time. With a little huff, she explains, “You know, calling apple-slaw an, ‘apple-flavored coleslaw’ is not entirely accurate? For one thing, apples are often the backbone of the dish, rather than a seasoning. Then, the Gardes Managers at Silver’s forego using cabbage, which is where the jicama comes in—”

“How in the _Sam Heck_ do you have coleslaw without cabbage, Princess?” Normally, Keith doesn’t downplay his natural accent, but doesn’t highlight it, either. He avoids most of the phrases that sound too Texan, but only because they make people think he’s stupid. For now, though, playing up where he came from helps to make his point. “It’s cabbage and mayonnaise, that’s the backbone of the entire _dang_ concoction.”

She arches her eyebrows, but gives up a snicker before too long. “It was simply a suggestion. Where would _you_ rather go, then?”

After some debate, they end up by campus, at the overly generous Thai place a few blocks away from the library. Maybe she’s feeling thwarted at not getting to drag him someplace fancy, or maybe he’s scaring her more than usual with how he’s been eating between grant checks. Either way, she makes Keith draw up a takeout order for later, with at least a week’s worth of leftovers on it, and needles him about choosing more until she’s satisfied that it’s enough.

He throws in two extra orders of veggie peanut curry on top of the rest. But he asks the waitress to please have them bagged up separately, because that order’s not for him.

Waiting for the appetizers that Allura insists on getting (to no argument from him; he _is_ pretty hungry, now that she’s made him think about it), they go over what Keith slept through today. Allura can’t help him with his class on Colonialism because she took it last semester; he’ll need to get those notes from Shay. He didn’t miss that much in Gothic Literary Traditions, though. He _did_ miss a good class with Kolivan, but that was less because of the material they covered — “Most of it was a review for midterms,” she tells him, pointing out places in her notebook for Rebellion and Revolution from the Enlightenment to the 21st Century, where she’d taken down suspiciously similar information before — and more because of how Antok came interrupting in the middle of Kolivan’s lecture.

Keith tries to sigh, but feels more like laughing. “God, it turned into another History faculty _Days of Our Lives_ rerun, didn’t it?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea what you could possibly mean by that. None whatsoever.” But Allura’s smirk and the glint in her eyes say otherwise. “Are you perhaps suggesting that Antok attempted to drag his husband out of the classroom over a vague, unspecified issue that sounded far more personal than any quote-unquote, ‘department emergency’? Or, maybe, that when Kolivan returned, he spent slightly over seven minutes warning us all about the risks inherent in intra-department romances, and took multiple student questions?”

Keith snorts mid-sip, getting Coke up his nose. Calming down, he shrugs. “Well, I’m definitely suggesting that _now_.”

“As well you should be, since it’s exactly what happened.” Allura giggles, and it’s so contagious that she gets a smile out of Keith, as well. “Honestly,” she says, “I think Coran and Thace have done the best for themselves by seeking romance _outside_ of the university life entirely. Even if Coran isn’t a professor, it has clearly worked out so much better for him.”

“I mean, he _only_ married a filthy rich diplomat and raised a pretty awesome daughter,” Keith deadpans. “He’d have to be pretty stupid to regret that.”

“Flattery won’t get you everywhere, but the sentiment _is_ appreciated.” Even so, her smile fades as the appetizers come and she watches Keith try to drown two shrimp spring rolls in the plum sauce. Toeing at his ankle, she says, “If we’re done discussing what you missed, though? I would rather like to know what happened. Because the last time you missed one of Kolivan’s classes, you had strep throat and he had to _tell you_ to leave.”

“Skipping class is a waste of money,” Keith says with a shrug, only wilting when Allura arches an eyebrow like, _Are you really trying to deflect with me right now?_ He shakes his head. “I’ve barely slept in the past ten days or so, remember? I went to yell at those Galaxy Garrison punks. I must’ve forgot to set an alarm.”

“Oh, really? Is that all? Because here, I was thinking that you had a later night than usual…” She reaches across the table to tap the back of his right hand. “Though I _did_ wonder why your late night wouldn’t have simply put their number in your _phone_.”

“Because there wasn’t a late night, that’s why. Not like you’re thinking, anyway.”

Dropping his gaze, he focuses on shoveling minced vegetables and shrimp into his mouth. He gets through a few forkfuls before Allura’s pointed silence starts scratching at his nerves. He slouches as he looks back up at her, and holding eye contact proves even harder than it usually is. If she were almost anybody else, he wouldn’t even bother trying, but the effort he’s putting in still doesn’t convince her that he isn’t lying.

“You can call and ask him, if you want,” Keith says offhandedly, thinking only about his spring rolls. “I yelled at them for keeping me up past four AM again, and the singer gave me his number. If you can call what he does _singing_. He’s no Dolly Parton, I’ll tell you that much.”

“He’s in a punk band, Keith. I wouldn’t _expect_ him to sing like Dolly Parton.”

“Look, it was late. I wanted to sleep without begging Rolo for his NyQuil because that stuff tastes _nasty_ , so I yelled at the punks who’ve been keeping me awake. Nothing serious.” Keith huffs. Why is he even justifying this to her? This isn’t an issue. “The singer was unexpectedly hot and I was too tired to tell him not to write on my hand.”

Which is the only thing about last night that Allura needs to know. As far as she needs to be concerned, Keith _didn’t_ want Shiro’s number and he’d certainly never met anybody in Shiro’s band before in his entire life. But she keeps nudging her foot into his ankle, batting at him in a slow, steady rhythm, like she can’t decide how much she wants to play with him. When she asks, he tells her that he doesn’t plan on calling. He leaves out the part where he hopes the number comes off in the shower; in all likelihood, she would correctly assume that Keith was only saying so because there’s something more that’s going on.

It’s not until he’s digging into a crab Rangoon that he sees her playing with his phone. Groaning, he tries to grab it back, and Allura shifts sideways in the booth.

“So, is he a grungy local punk of mystery?” she says. “Or did you happen to get his name?”

“It’s Shiro.” Fuck Keith’s brain-to-mouth filter straight to Hell for failing him now. “But I’m _not_ going to call him. Or text him. End of discussion.”

“Yes. That’s why I’m doing it _for_ you.” The _Look_ she gives him is singularly unimpressed. “You don’t need to go out with him if you don’t want to. But keeping the lines of communication open might help keep you from needing to yell at his band again.”

“Dammit, that’s actually a good point,” Keith mumbles before he realizes what he’s saying. He drops his fork and digs at the bridge of his nose. He doesn’t have a headache, but hopefully, this gets him to shake off whatever’s screwing up his head right now. “But Jesus, what are you telling him?”

Allura uses her _I don’t want to explain this for you but fine, alright, I will_ voice to read off, “‘Hey, Shiro. It’s Keith from last night. Sorry to break up your practice then keep you waiting, had a long day at class. You doing okay?’”

“Oh, God, no — don’t tell him that, he won’t even…” Keith motions for her to give his phone back. “I swear that I’ll text him. Just let me do it for myself.”

With that promise, she relents. When he fires off the text, he reads it to her — _“Hey, it’s Keith. Sorry about last night, I was pretty out of it. Haven’t slept well lately”_ — and returns to his Rangoon. He tries to nudge Allura about her Contemporary Ethics class with Thace, and about whether or not that pissy Hira chick still pointlessly butts heads with her in every damn debate. It’s a good distraction, well-played if he does say so himself. Allura loves feeling like she’s right, and she almost always gets to feel that way when she’s complaining about why Hira’s giving her a headache this time.

More importantly, Keith doesn’t need help with his own situation, not right now. Even if he found Shiro out of nowhere, there’s no way that dwelling on this series of nonsense events ends well for anybody, especially not Keith. This is the last thing that he ever needed in his life. But Allura glares at him when he ignores the buzzing from his phone, and she grabs it when Keith tries to ask why anybody still takes Hira’s side when the two of them get into it.

“‘Don’t worry about it, I understand,’” Allura reads back, her voice unnervingly clinical. “‘Sorry for keeping you up so late. We only knew about your neighbors.’ Oh my God, he’s so _polite_. Are you sure he’s really in a punk band? I wouldn’t…”

Whatever she’s going to ask, the phone buzzes again, and she arches an eyebrow. “‘It really was nice to see you again’? Is he being serious right now, or…”

Another buzz, and this one makes Allura frown. “‘How have you been doing?’” she says, and makes no attempt at hiding her confusion. “‘I’ve really missed you, Keith’ — excuse me, but what is he talking about?”

“Maybe he’s texting drunk or something. He’s in a punk band, right? They could be all, ‘Fuck the Man’ and drinking in the middle of the day?” Keith doesn’t believe it, but unless Shiro’s bandmates confiscate his phone after he’s had two cheap wine coolers, it’s not outside the realm of plausibility.

Allura wrinkles her nose. “If he _is_ , then he has the best grasp of grammar, spelling, and punctuation that I have ever seen in anybody who’s intoxicated.”

“Then okay, he’s probably not drunk.” He only barely stops himself from telling her that Shiro’s drunk-texts are (or used to be) a hot mess of typos, bad autocorrections, smiley face emoticons like someone’s great-aunt who just got onto Facebook, and way too many commas. “Maybe he’s busy and texting with a different Keith.”

A veritable Judas, the phone buzzes again. Allura reads in silence, snickers, then hands it back. “The details suggest otherwise, dearheart.”

Shiro’s latest text says, _“Did you ever get the lion tattoo done?”_

If Keith had never stayed over with Allura, he could at least attempt to deny the thing’s existence. But she’s seen him naked, even in completely sexless contexts, and she’s seen the red lion he has inked into his back. She’s even heard the story of why Keith ever got the thing, shared on one sleepy weekend morning when they were dating. She was playing big spoon when she asked about it, nuzzling against his back and brushing her fingers over the tattoo, sprinkling gentle kisses along his spine. Keith felt halfway safe for once, which almost never happens, and since he still half-asleep, he thought nothing of telling her a version of where Red had come from.

_“I had a lot of rough times growing up, y’know?”_ he said, even rolling over to look Allura in the eye (though, in practice, he wound up looking more at her mouth instead). _“My parents both went missing. The aunt who took me in died when I was nine. Some of my foster parents didn’t want to keep me, once they figured out I’m kind of broken — or autistic, I guess, but I didn’t know that, back then. I got bullied at school all the time, I was always getting into fights, I had a few foster siblings who outright hated me._

_“And all I really wanted in there was a friend, so I made up this imaginary one and had adventures with her. She was a super-fast red lioness who could breathe fire and all kinds of stuff. So, after I could actually get a tattoo — I mean, things were pretty unstable for a while? But I saved up and hoarded cash until I had enough to get her done.”_

Completely blanking on another plausible excuse about who else Shiro could be texting, Keith sighs and slouches in defeat.

“Shiro drew Red for me, okay?” he says, keeping his voice down, even though he doubts that anybody in this restaurant even cares. “I knew him around then, and I never made it past doodling stick figures? But he liked the stories I made up about her, so he drew her for me, and when I said I wanted a tattoo of her, he designed it because I trusted him to draw her _right_.”

Allura gives him a pensive hum. “So, you _trusted_ him, did you?”

_Oh, fuck, shit, dammit._ “To draw Red exactly like I pictured her, yes. That was it.”

“Well, you also told him stories about Red,” she points out. “So, letting him draw your lion can’t have been the full extent of how much you trusted him. Unless you’re lying to me right now?”

“I’m not lying, Princess! I just… don’t want to talk about it, either.”

Hoping that he’ll get her to back off, he taps off a reply to Shiro: _“Yeah, she’s on my back. Thanks for the design. Used the one of her roaring with the stars behind her. And I’ve been okay, just sleep-deprived. You?”_

—there, it’s perfect. He’s answering the important questions, ignoring the parts that he can’t handle, and leveling no accusations, even though Shiro must be full of shit right now. If Shiro still has anything in common with the version of himself he used to be, he won’t feel like he’s lying. At the same time, though, there’s no way that he isn’t. He’s only asking how Keith’s doing because he’s great at navigating social niceties, and he’s only saying that he missed Keith because Shiro’s sentimental and no doubt feels like he has to say some shit like that. There’s no way that Shiro really missed him, because that would not make sense.

Setting his phone back by his Coke, Keith lets Allura know that his text was polite and that he used decent grammar, but not too decent. He might hate texting in ways that might make people think he’s stupid, but she’s told him that it can gets overbearing, so he dialed it back.

“Not that he’ll probably see it for a while,” he says. At her arched eyebrow, he clarifies, “ _What_? His stupid band is getting ready for some competition in a couple weeks. He’s not gonna be waiting by the phone to text me back like some lovesick teenybopper.”

“He has texted you back almost immediately since we started texting him.”

“ _Whatever_ , Princess! It doesn’t mean anything! Maybe we caught him in some down time, I don’t know. It’s not like this is actually going anywhere, so who gives a shit?”

Vaguely, it occurs to Keith that he might sound like he gives a shit, but at least Allura doesn’t call him on it.

She does, however, slump back in the booth, folding her arms like she’s trying not to be annoyed with him. “How do you get, ‘This isn’t going anywhere’ out of him texting back that he _misses_ you?”

“Because he’s only being nice, is how I get that.” Why that’s even a question is beyond him, but since Allura continues looking puzzled, Keith spells it out for her: “Look, Princess, when I knew him? Shiro could’ve shown up to the most hardline homophobic church wearing a dress made from a rainbow flag, and even if he’d tongue-kissed a dude at the pulpit in the middle of a Christmas sermon? He still would’ve won over every last rock-throwing, Bible-beating motherfucker in the congregation. Because he’s nice, and because he’s _charming_ , and because he just…”

_He makes you feel like you can trust him, like he’s really listening and like he cares. He works his way in without even trying, and makes you feel like maybe you’re actually important, like you’re actually made out of cosmic dust and not just the random chance result of two people who’d barely been together for a year fooling around in the backseat of her car. He doesn’t **intend** do to this or even notice when he does, but it’s his **modus operandi** , so nothing that he ever says means much of anything._

No, Keith can’t tell Allura that. He’d have to explain too much, and if he didn’t make her pointlessly get sad, she’d probably make fun of him for being “emo” or whatever.

Well, maybe she wouldn’t do that. But other people would, so Keith still needs something else to say.

He hugs himself and puts his elbows on the table in a way that would get him tut-tutted if Coran were here to do so. A clump of hair falls over his eye, but Keith doesn’t bother flipping it back. Whatever, he’s tired, and this conversation’s turning difficult enough without trying to worry about his stupid hair.

With a shrug, he wraps it up: “I’m not saying that Shiro’s manipulative or anything. You need malicious intent to be manipulative, and at least when I knew him? He didn’t have that. But when he puts his mind to it, he can make even the worst people ever fall in love with him by sheer force of _niceness_. That’s how I know that, ‘I’ve really missed you, Keith’ means absolutely nothing.”

As if on cue, his phone buzzes once again. Allura grabs it while he’s busy cringing.

“‘That was my favorite design I did of Red. I’d love to see what she looks like, sometime’ — which would necessitate him seeing you, unless you mean to send him blurry photos and then blow him off, _soooo_ …” Maybe she’s trying not to look smug right now, but dammit, she’s quirking her eyebrow like Mr. Fucking Spock, and it’s making Keith feel kind of sick.

But then there’s more text left to read, because of course there is: “‘You free any time next week?’ — there, see? He wants to see you. ‘I’d say this weekend, but we’re playing a show Saturday night, and’…”

Keith’s heart drops to his stomach as she trails off, and she’s done tapping out a reply before he can think of anything to do. (At that, the only ideas he has are pulling the fire alarm, which would be way more trouble than it’s worth, and the image of Shiro’s hipbones peeking over the waistband of his ratty jeans.)

Handing the phone over, Allura says, “You don’t need to do anything that you don’t want, but as far as he’s concerned, you asked him when and where his show is. I don’t know what you’re up to next week, but as your friend and someone who loves you? I hope that you consider seeing him.”

Keith says he’ll think about it, and right now, he even feels like he might. Practically anything would be preferable to Shiro’s hips tormenting him all night.

*** * ***

As dinner winds down, Allura starts getting lovey-dovey texts from Shay, and Keith’s not sure whether or not he wants to stick his nose in. Either way, he lets her call a ride for him when they’re finished and she’s paid. Physically, he feels fine, but he has to carry two huge brown paper bags, full of food in plastic or styrofoam containers. Under the circumstances, he’d rather not try to ride the bus.

Coming up on his building, Keith squints at the garage. He takes a deep breath when he sees that it’s closed, and sighs in relief when he can’t hear anybody arguing or tuning their guitars or anything. The night’s still young, so that might change, but Keith stumbles upstairs as quickly as he can manage, hugging the bags for dear life. Once he’s set his down on the counter, he pulls out the plastic bag sitting on top and takes it down the hall. When Rolo opens up, wearing his so-called _Han Solo vest_ and a pair of short pajamas that might belong to Nyma, Keith shoves the peanut curry at him.

“Allura was buying,” he says by way of explanation, trying not to get distracted by the sounds of Nyma telling their mutt Beezer to sit, stay, no, don’t go over to the door. “I remembered what you and Nyma like. Have dinner. Something better than Hot Pockets, anyway.”

Rolo chuckles a _thanks, kid_ in his gravelly way that Keith’s never learned to read or gotten comfortable with. “But since you’re here? Did Nyma and me hear right last night? You really go down there and cuss out those punks in the band?”

Keith shrugs. “They said you guys told them you didn’t mind.”

“Yeah, we did. But they didn’t tell _us_ they’d be practicing so late, y’know?”

Oh, believe him, Keith knows. “I slept all day and I still feel like I’m gonna pass out as soon as I hit the sheets.”

“The yappy one seemed like he was trying to flirt with Nyma. And the little one with the glasses kept trying to buy our weed.” Rolo rolls his eyes and shakes his head as if asking Keith what these crazy kids will think of next. “Still, can’t argue with it too much, can we?”

“If they keep me up all night again, I won’t be arguing,” Keith says. “I’ll be asking you to tie me down so I don’t go slash that Lance guy’s tires.”

Apparently, that’s not what Rolo meant. “I’m no fan of the noise riot, either,” he explains. “But them paying to use the space means Morvok’s still our landlord. Sure, he’s an asshole, there’s a lot of reason not to like him, but…”

Rolo huffs, and sounds more exhausted than Keith’s ever heard from him before. It’s…… weird. A little disconcerting? And he doesn’t help by shooting Keith a limp smirk that completely lacks all of Rolo’s usual edge.

“Well, we’ve still got somewhere to call, ‘home,’ and that’s what really matters, right?” he says. “At least we’re not waiting out a blizzard in an Old Navy with a broken generator, just hoping we won’t get arrested.”

Although he nods, Keith feels like there’s some implication that he’s missing, here. For now, though, Rolo’s right. They might live in a grimy, filthy shit-hole where the roof leaks, the walls groan, the shared bathroom never really lets them clean it, and when it gets cold, the antiquated heating system sometimes tries to kill them.

But they have somewhere to sleep and a roof over their heads. Relative to where all three of them have been before, they’re doing downright great.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this chapter got added on pretty quickly, but it’s also the weekend, and I got into a groove with it? Fair warning, though: I am still making up as I go, and I’m not going to promise anything about when any updates will happen, because that’s a really good way for me to jinx myself, write absolutely nothing, feel bad, then go space out to old Outside X-Box list videos for a couple hours. ♡
> 
> Additions to the running tally of other canon characters I’ve referenced:
> 
>   * Shay is a fellow student, local activist, and currently Allura’s girlfriend;
>   * Kolivan, Antok, and Thace are all professors with whom Keith, Allura, and Shay have had classes (Antok and Kolivan are in the history department, and Thace is technically part of the philosophy faculty, since he’s over here teaching Contemporary Ethics);
>   * Antok and Kolivan are married, and although the latter loves his husband, he periodically has to deal with personal drama while he’s teaching and turns it into a lesson in Why Intra-Departmental Romances Are A Bad Idea;
>   * Thace is also married, to Ulaz, who isn’t a professor and doesn’t even work at the university in any capacity;
>   * Zarkon is the university’s Dean of Student Life because that idea amuses me terribly;
>   * Hira from the Mirrorverse is That Person In Allura’s Contemporary Ethics Class Who Always Has An Opinion About Everything. She is also in an ongoing competition with Allura for the right to be That One Person Who Always Has An Opinion About Everything. Nobody is winning. It’s kind of at a stalemate right now but neither of them will just accept that nobody is winning, oops;
>   * Morvok is Keith, Rolo, and Nyma’s shady douchebag landlord;
>   * Keith’s biological parents are people who exist and haven’t been in his life since he was about eight (though his Mom went missing earlier);
>   * the Red Lion was Keith’s imaginary friend while he was growing up, and he never entirely outgrew her, and now he has a tattoo of her on his back, which was designed by Shiro;
>   * and instead of a robot, Beezer is Rolo and Nyma’s dog. He’s an adorable mutt. He has just met you and he loves you.
> 

> 
> Also, Shiro is the world’s worst drunk texter, but at the moment, that’s not an issue because he isn’t drunk.
> 
> Anyway, thank you all so much for reading, and I’ll see you next time (whenever that is)! ♡


	3. And now, a word from Leandro “Lance” Esparza

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, certain leaks from certain handbooks have gone around today, and because of them, I’m just going to say: 1. cool; and 2. of more immediate relevance, this fic doesn’t have, “official canon” age differences at all. Shiro, Matt, and Rax are 27 going on 28 (and Shiro isn’t a Leap Year baby because I hate math); Lotor is already 28 and will be 29 at his next birthday; Shay is 24 and turning 25; Allura and Keith were 23 at the start of 2017, and will be turning 24 soon; Hunk, Lance, and Plaxum turned 23 this year; Pidge and Luki are 21 and will be 22 next year; and I’m still making a few decisions about Narti, Zethrid, Ezor, and Axca, but they also haven’t shown up in person yet anyway.
> 
> All of the ages are based on my previous headcanons about canon ages, because they’re what I had in mind when I started writing.
> 
> Important attribution where it’s due: I didn’t come up with the idea that, “Lance” is an acronym. I don’t know if @daddyroboarm and @cubanbisexuallance on tumblr originally came up with the idea either, but their blogs are where I first found it and went, “Oh yeah, I could totally see that, that’s a neat idea.” I mashed up the idea that I saw on @cubanbisexuallance’s blog (Leandro Alejandro Núñez Cuesta Espinoza) with a few names I liked better (namely Agustín, Navarro, and Esparza), but yeah. I originally found this general idea on their blogs, and borrowed 2/5 of Lance’s name from their headcanons.
> 
> @cubanbisexuallance’s and @daddyroboarm’s blogs were also huge helps and resources for me while writing Lance (in this chapter specifically as well as in general), specifically their tags about Cuban Lance ([@cubanbisexuallance’s](http://cubanbisexuallance.tumblr.com/tagged/Cuban%20Lance%20resources) & [@daddyroboarm’s](http://daddyroboarm.tumblr.com/tagged/cuban%20lance)). I’m still very white and very not Cuban, so there’s likely still quite a bit that I could do better here. For anything that I’ve screwed up thus far in writing Cuban!Lance, I’m sorry. ♡

There ought to be a law against Thursdays, in Lance’s opinion. Never in his life has Leandro Agustín Navarro Cuesta Esparza had a good day that happened to fall on a Thursday.

He’s had a few semi-decent Thursdays, he guesses. But even the one when he and Plaxum first kissed each other also featured highlights like Lance’s bike getting stolen and his phone dying while he was in a part of town he didn’t know very well. Worse, he didn’t even notice the latter part until after he’d taken Plaxum home and gotten lost some several blocks away from her place, at which point he had no way to call Hunk or Shiro or Pidge-and-Matt to ask for help. Having change would’ve helped if he’d been able to find a payphone, but none turned up.

Ultimately, Lance only found a phone he could use because it started raining, one of the guys at Pidge’s favorite Lebanese place took pity on him, and Lance got a fattoush to go because he had to buy _something_ and had a feeling that his Shirito might have forgotten dinner again.

Lance was correct in that suspicion, but unfortunately, the accuracy of his, “Shiro might be skipping meals” sense is one of the things in life that he can’t celebrate. Plus, this was back before Plaxum put the first set of teal streaks in her hair, when she still let people other than their boss and her parents call her _Paulina_. So, it’s been a while since Lance has had a Thursday that was anything but mediocre, at best, and a one-way ticket to Sucksville, at worst.

This Thursday should’ve gone okay, by Thursday standards. Lance doesn’t even mind being on opening shift at Mind Swish Wreck-Chords after a late night with the band, because he was slated to work it with Plaxum and early Thursday mornings are slow enough that they can cover for each other if either of them needs to go take a nap in the break-room. Maybe they’re not _together_ anymore, but they still click, and she is still Lance’s hands down favorite land-mermaid. Her aquamarine hair is up in two pigtails today, positioned high on her head, and her Velvet Underground t-shirt rides up on her soft stomach to show off which ring she’s wearing in her bellybutton today. The gold one with the Wonder Woman insignia dangling off it — one of Lance’s personal favorites.

(Not that his opinion on Plaxum’s jewelry matters because it’s her business to accessorize or not however she pleases. But he won’t deny: it’s pretty neat when his friends have good taste.)

After she unlocks the store, he grins, gestures at Plaxum’s piercing, and tells her, “Girl, I’m already in wonder at what an amazing woman you are.”

Plaxum snickers and rolls her eyes. With a gentle _thwap_ on the shoulder, she says, “Go lie down, Lancito. You’ve probably got an hour before Luxia gets here.”

He ends up with a slightly longer nap than that (and with Luxia giving him another half-hour because there is absolutely no one in the shop today and apparently, Lance looks exhausted), but it doesn’t make much difference. Sure, it makes dealing with the eventual customers marginally easier — though there’s no fixing the hipster with the Buddy Holly glasses who always bugs Lance about why they don’t have the exact movie soundtracks that he wants — but Lance could’ve managed that just fine without a nap. He loves people, and he loves being around them. Even getting annoyed is better than being alone.

But by the time Luki starts her shift, giving Lance and Plaxum time to break for lunch, Lance has yet to get his head in the game. Grumbling his way through some of Hunk’s leftover lasagna, Lance is pretty sure that his head isn’t even in the vicinity of the game. If the game’s happening out in the City, then his head’s likely up around the moon.

Which might not be so bad except that Plaxum toes out of her sneakers, drops her feet into his lap, and says, “ _¿Que bola?_ You’ve been fidgety all morning. Even for you.”

“Oh, nothing much,” Lance deadpans and shrugs. “Practice just got interrupted last night when Hunk decided to elope with the Princess of some tiny principality in Europe that’s so underground you’ve probably never heard of it. She looked like Mandy Moore in _A Walk To Remember_ , and I guess now my buddy’s gonna be Prince Consort of Hipstervania when he grows up.”

“Perhaps that could’ve been avoided, if he knew that someone other than the Princess of Hipstervania wants to bang him like a screen door in a hurricane.” Unruffled, Plaxum takes a bite of her chicken shawarma wrap. After a moment, she clarifies, “I mean _you_ , naturally. _Mira, bonito_ , he might actually end up eloping with somebody else if you never tell him how you feel. Maybe not today or tomorrow or next week, even. But it could come to pass, and if that happens? You’ll have nobody to blame but yourself.”

“I _know_ , but that doesn’t mean I wanna _deal with it_.” Lance pushes his lunch aside so he can face-plant on the table. Relationships are hard. Talking about them sucks. Lance is _allowed_ to be frustrated with now. Tugging on his own hair, he says, “Besides, I still don’t know how to say it in a way that he’ll believe. He’s so down on himself that you could literally drop the world’s biggest hint at his feet, wrapped in a pretty box with his freaking name on it, and he’d pick it up and take it to Shirito, because obviously, you really meant to give it to _him. ¿Claro?_ ”

He groans and it makes him feel like he’s fourteen again, getting jealous of Marimar, his middle sister, because she told Mami that she’s bi on the same day that he was gonna do the same.

But at least Lance makes himself sit up as he adds, “But our practice really did get interrupted. By this jumped-up little hothead nerd who we didn’t even know lived above the garage. And then, I guess he knows Shirito, who seemed pretty happy to see him last night, which is like, ‘Okay, unexplained but cool’? _Pero_ when I left this morning? He was half-dozing on the sofa with his laptop, watching _Steven Universe_ again.”

Not that Lance begrudges Shiro whatever cartoons he wants to watch. After all, Shiro always puts up with Lance’s _Spongebob_ marathons, and his inability to watch _Inglourious Basterds_ without rewinding it at least five times because he got distracted and missed the subtitles over one of the parts in French or German. Anyway, at least _Steven Universe_ is pretty cool.

But on the Shirogane Takashi Scale of Moodiness, “half-asleep and watching kids’ cartoons” is slightly better than, “watching _Finding Nemo_ on repeat until he makes himself cry, especially because he’s almost always doing that on purpose,” but both options are distinctly worse than, “sighing wistfully at dog adoption websites because Shiro wants to get a sibling or twenty for Rover, but the rest of the band outvoted him about it.” At least Shiro wasn’t watching _**That** Episode_ of _Steven Universe_ , Lance guesses, when he and Plaxum head back to work.

“I mean, I can’t tell you which one I’m thinking of because it might get too close to one of those, ‘Lance, we get that you care, but this is not your business to share or not with other people’ things? Things can get _bad_ if Shiro’s watching this one particular episode, though.”

As he takes up his place behind the register, Lance wonders if he’s maybe crossed one of those invisible lines already. But he probably hasn’t, he feels pretty sure. If nothing else, Plaxum wouldn’t blab about anything he’s told her, and definitely not to her thousands of followers on Instagram and Tumblr. Her personal life, she’s explained before, does not get mixed up in her mermaid hair and makeup tips. Everything gets way too messy when you mix up the content of your social media accounts like that.

*** * ***

Unfortunately for Lance’s nerves, he gets home to find Shiro exactly where he left him: sitting on the sofa in his sweatpants. At a first glance, about the only differences are that: it’s darker than it was this morning (dark enough that Lance would’ve turned on a lamp, but they have different tastes about light levels); Shiro has his hair tied up in a man-bun (except his skunk stripe); he apparently took a shower; and he now sits wedged back against an armrest, with his legs curled up to his chest.

That position cannot possibly be comfortable when you’re freaking six-foot-three, if anyone asks Lance, but nobody has and anyway, he isn’t Shiro. Unlike Lance, Shiro can get a decent night’s sleep on a hardwood floor, using one of his ratty hoodies as a pillow, provided he doesn’t have any nightmares or get woken up by a fire alarm — so, what does Lance know. Maybe Shiro’s fine, sitting like that. Toeing out of his sneakers, Lance calls out that he’s home, and Shiro waves at him, without saying anything.

Glancing over at the coffee-table that they rescued from some neighbor’s trash two years ago, Lance doesn’t spot Shiro’s laptop and briefly lets himself get excited. Maybe Shiro just got out of the shower after hitting the gym. Maybe he’s trying to Skype with one of the cousins he’s supposedly reconnecting with, at Ulaz’s recommendation. Maybe nothing is wrong and everything’s okay (as okay as it gets around here, with all the issues stacked up between Shiro, Lance, and Hunk) — but Shiro’s distaste for headphones betrays him as Lance makes out the soft, tinkly voices singing, _We! Are the Crystal Gems! We’ll always save the day!_

All Lance can do is bite his lip, choke down a groan, dump his backpack in the kitchen, and silently count to ten, telling himself that good friends exercise patience with each other, no matter how much they think they’re in the right. Good friends take a beat to reflect before making molehill-mountains and creating issues where actually, there might not be any. Yes, he would _like_ to just run in swinging and make an issue out of things because it’s easier, in the short-term, not to pause and think about this. But Lance doesn’t know that Shiro’s even watching _**That** Episode_, much less binge-repeating it, and he has no clue what Shiro’s done or hasn’t done today. So, it’s too early to assume Shiro needs some kind of friendly intervention.

As he scopes out the scene more closely, Lance spots the laptop sitting on one of the unoccupied cushions, and quietly kicks himself for not noticing the way the screen’s illuminating Shiro’s face. God, what a thing to miss. It’s literally right there, one of the most obvious things about the scene in front of Lance, and even so, he freaking missed it.

Shiro’s phone is on the coffee-table, sitting over the one short leg that they’ve propped up on some paper coasters from a ritzy hotel uptown (which Lance wanted to just throw out, after Shiro finally dumped Lotor, but then the table was wobbly and this fix was easy, and at least Shiro can’t look at the stupid things too closely anymore). Next to the phone is a mug where, at some point today, Shiro brewed a two-bag cup of tea. Lance doesn’t _remember_ Shiro’s phone being on the table this morning, but now that he thinks about it? He also doesn’t know where else the stupid thing would’ve been. So, as far as figuring out how Shirito’s doing and what he’s been up to, this clue might not actually mean anything.

Hugging his shins, Shiro rests his chin on his knees. Since things aren’t obviously going straight to Hell, Lance ferrets around, looking for the tea bags. Because that sounds like a good idea, for both of them. Tea might not fix everything, and coffee will always be infinitely better, but as long as Hunk’s not trying to sell them on the abomination that is decaf, everything is cool. But once Lance has the water boiling and started to look around for dinner, he hears Shiro _sigh_.

Lance grimaces, tightening his grip on the fridge door’s handle. He knows that sigh too well not to go stick his nose in, because precedent says that this kind of sigh from Shiro is usually pretty Not Good. Maybe it’s not necessarily _Bad_ , but it’s Tired, and it’s straining around something, and underneath a mixed bag of emotions, it definitely isn’t _Good_ , which could turn _Bad_ pretty easily, especially if Shiro isn’t saying anything out loud. So, Lance slouches over to the sofa, faces Shiro, and folds his arms over his chest, waiting for either acknowledgement from Shiro or something he can pick on to break the ice himself.

That something makes itself obvious pretty quickly. Now that Lance is closer to Shiro’s laptop, he can actually make out the dialogue — _“But it’s not like that, anymore. You don’t have to be with Jasper!” “That’s not it, I… I **miss** her…”_ — and it makes him frown even deeper.

So, Shiro’s watching _**That** Episode_ after all. He isn’t even trying to pause and switch to some stupid Youtube video of a weird local news report that Matt found, or one of Hunk’s favorite web-star cats trying to play the piano. Hearing Lance call his name gets Shiro to hum and nod, but even after three attempts from Lance, Shiro still says nothing, not even as a deeper voice grows from the laptop: _“It’ll be better this time! I’ve changed! You’ve changed me!”_

—and okay, that’s quite enough of that. With a huff, Lance reaches over and closes Shiro’s laptop. He stays in place, bent at the waist and staring pointedly at his friend, until Shiro finally looks up and blinks at him. His eyes are dry for now, not even misting over, and okay, maybe they aren’t _puffy_ , but they’re pretty red around the edges. Lance sighs, and all the drive to glare at Shiro just drains out of him.

“I’ll be right back,” he says. Pointing at the laptop, he tacks on, “Do _not_ open that up and start watching again.”

Shiro nods, and by the time Lance is back with a travel thermos full of ice water, the laptop’s on the coffee table and Shiro’s sitting with his face toward the wall. His legs are still pressed against his chest, but Lance feels like the positioning’s a good sign? Shiro sitting in a way that looks kinda sorta possibly less terrified, and more like he’s amenable to sharing the couch with someone else? The not-talking part is making Lance wish that Shiro’s issues could take on physical form (other than the things he does to his own body because of them, Lance means), because if they could do that, then Lance could just go and fight them for Shiro, and hopefully, he would slay them dead and save Shiro from ever having to deal with this shit again.

In the meantime, Lance can only wait. Which, in practice, means a lot of drumming random rhythms on his thigh, clicking his tongue as he flits his eyes around the apartment, apologizing for clicking his tongue (because maybe it annoys Pidge more than it annoys Shiro, but he’s in a Not Good way at the moment, so… apologies are fair) only to do it again a few seconds later because he forgets to remind himself not to, and eventually, humming the _Super Mario Bros._ theme because it might be distracting, but at least it’s not clicking his stupid tongue. (Dimly, he hopes Shiro might join in, but unfortunately, he’s not as easy to drag into a theme music hum-along as Pidge.)

The teakettle yells, and Shiro still hasn’t said anything, and it takes Lance a moment to resist the urge to scream in frustration. Whether or not Shiro picks up on that, he gives Lance a crooked, unconvincing smile when he comes back with the tea.

“Thanks, man,” he says, and uncurls his legs, even if it’s only so he can put the mug down on the table. Without them in the way, Lance can see that he’s wearing an old, black tank top with the cover art from _American Idiot_ screenprinted on the chest.

Well, it’s not a _great_ start, but okay. They’re getting somewhere now, and Lance will take it. And apparently, Shiro’s having a Green Day kind of day, which still isn’t perfect, but it’s loads better than his Limp Wrist, Of Montreal, Fiona Apple, _In Utero_ , or, “listening to, ‘When My Boy Walks Down The Street’ on repeat for five solid hours and moaning any time someone (probably Hunk or Pidge) tries to turn it off, no matter how asleep they think he is” kinds of days.

This doesn’t change the fact that his Shirito’s looking a little paler than usual, but still. A Green Day kind of day is better than several of the other options, and that merits some appreciation.

“Sooooo…” Lance tries to dive in, and immediately skids into the realization that there’s _so much going on here_ that he could ask about and now, he doesn’t quite know where to start. “…You go to therapy today? Or did you stay in and cancel?”

“No, I went. And I went out for more than that and the gym,” Shiro says, bringing one of his legs back up and resting his chin on his knee. “Is your Twitter poll closed yet? Matt and I talked about Saturday’s setlist over lunch, and he’d kinda like to know what this show’s, ‘We do a punk cover of a distinctly not punk song, and probably objectify Shiro because that’s fun’ song is gonna be?”

“No, it’s over tomorrow at noon, but like…” Lance nudges closer to Shiro, though he’s careful to still give him space. “Like, if you’re not feeling that great, I can do the lead on that one and we can objectify _me_ instead? Or we can just drop it for this show, if you want to? I mean, you’re always gorgeous, but we don’t have to…”

Lance trails off as he realizes that… oh. Shiro’s looking at him, now. And he doesn’t look _happy_ or _relieved_ , but more _confused_ , which is in and of itself confusing? The smile he forces is still a little unconvincing, but to his credit, he doesn’t try to make it take up his entire face or anything. If anybody else were here, this smile would be just for Lance to see.

“I’ll be fine for Saturday, Lance. I had kind of a weird day today, but nothing that would screw up the show.”

There’s an unspoken _thanks for looking out for me_ that Lance picks up on, and he’s fine not calling Shiro out on it because saying anything like that would require him to admit that he needs looking out for, which is always some kind of work-in-progress.

But that doesn’t keep Lance from thinking, _Yeah, because, “weird” is totally the first word that comes to my mind for a day that makes you put on **That** Episode. I mean, I guess that the first thing that comes to my mind after trying to make sure that you’re not, like, dying? Is how much I want to put Lotor and that Maurice guy through a wood-chipper for what they’ve done to you. But that’d be illegal and could get you in trouble more than me, which is why I don’t go do it._

(There should totally be a clause like, “Killing your friend’s douchebag exes doesn’t count as murder, it’s a public service,” but then some people would probably abuse that. Worse, Lance doesn’t even think he _could_ put Lotor and Coño Maurice Who He’s Never Even Met through a wood-chipper, if it were legal to do so. He’s thought about it, sure, because the two of them are terrible and hurt one of the best friends Lance has ever had in his life. In reality, though, he’d probably get sicker than Hunk does in the backseat of Matt’s van, and end up crying on Shiro because yeah, he couldn’t go through with it but he still really, really wanted to because they hurt Shiro like they did and they shouldn’t be allowed to get away with that.)

_Snap!_

Lance blinks and furrows his brow at the hand hovering in front of his face. The fingers snap again, three times in quick succession, and he whines as he bats Shiro’s arm away.

“Dude! What the Hell was that for?”

Shiro shrugs. “You spaced out and didn’t come back around when I tried telling you that Hugh Dancy was running up the block naked.” He takes a long drink out of his thermos. “Did you remember to take your Adderall today?”

_Oh, for the love of_ … “Son of a _madre_ -cheesing, holy _colchones, carajo_ , father-freaking _quiznak_!” Lance smacks his head against the back of the couch. “I _knew_ there was something I forgot!”

For long enough that the silence gets awkward, all Shiro does is stare at him, with one eyebrow threatening to pointedly arch its way off his face entirely. “…Did? Did you just say, ‘ _quiznak_ ’?”

“I heard some old guy yell it at his car up by the college a couple weeks ago?” Lance explains, face absolutely burning. “I don’t know why it came to my mind, it just _did_? Pidge and me have been sniping it at each other because we thought it was funny…”

Shiro chuckles, and finally gives Lance a smile that looks genuine, like a beam of sunshine, the way that Shiro Smiles™ should always look. “It’s pretty funny.”

That’s when it dawns on Lance: “You’re trying to _distract_ me. And ugh, I’m making it so _easy_ for you, too, like I’m playing into your hands _exactly_ …” He slouches, and pouts, but leaves out how this feels because they can deal with that later, when Shiro isn’t being so immediately worrisome. “So, total guess in the dark here, but… Therapy went _bad_ today?”

Maybe Shiro’s face doesn’t completely fall, but he slumps a bit, and has to think about that question more than Lance likes — which _could_ mean that he isn’t sure whether or not he wants to talk about it and has to do an inventory on his feelings, but it could also mean a lot of other things, and most of them aren’t particularly pleasant. But with a huff, he says, “I wouldn’t say it went badly? Just that it was complicated?”

“Okay, but was it _Facebook_ complicated where it’s like you’re not talking about things as openly as you should be? Or is it, more like, ‘actually pretty tangled and messy’ kinds of complicated?” He means to wait for Shiro to answer that question — even if he does it with a shrug or something — but while he’s thinking about that, Lance gets another flash of an idea: “Did you eat dinner yet?”

Again, Shiro needs a moment to think, though he’s quicker about this one. When he shakes his head _no_ , Lance lets himself groan. “Dude, why the cheese _not_?”

A shrug, and a huff as Shiro nuzzles his cheek up against his leg. “Because you weren’t home, and Hunk still has me on kitchen probation? Y’know, for trying to put out a grease fire with water? Even though Pidge _stopped me_ before I’d actually done anything, and probably also saved the entire apartment?”

“Well, to be fair, _bonito_? The fact that you even _almost_ tried it is still a good reason for probation, here.” Not that Lance feels any better for having forgotten that this was A Thing, but on the other hand, he’s unmedicated and that should definitely merit some special consideration. “But come on, man. You know you could’ve gotten takeout.”

To his credit (and Lance’s relief), Shiro doesn’t argue that point at all. He does ask that they save any further attempts to talk about serious issues until after they figure out something to do about food, but good idea or not, it’s a request that Lance agrees with.

*** * ***

Ultimately, they decide on Chinese for dinner, because Shirito doesn’t feel up for pizza and Lance had some last night anyway, but they can’t agree on any other place that does delivery. Sure, Shiro needs a bit of nudging before he relents and gets enough, but that’s pretty typical. He’s been doing it a bit less often lately, but it’s still not completely gone. On the other hand, by the time they ask if Hunk wants something (no, thanks; tonight, he’s sleeping in his room at Matt and Pidge’s place upstairs) and call their order in, Shiro has to admit that he’s pretty hungry after all.

“I was pretty tired, after seeing Ulaz,” he says, “and then some other stuff came up… I didn’t notice how long it’d been until you asked. Or that I was feeling pretty… not-good.”

They could totally dig into that — some part of Lance feels like maybe they _should_ — but like so many things that Shiro has to deal with, his difficulty telling whether or not he’s hungry is unfortunately complicated. Tangled and messy complicated, too, not Facebook-level, _“For fuck’s sakes, talk about your problems, dumbass”_ complicated. Talking more could help him, too, but even that is its own mess of unpredictable bullshit. Where’s the line between, “not talking enough” and, “talking so much that it puts on too much pressure and starts doing Shiro harm”? Lance can’t tell, and only part of his confusion comes from how the line keeps moving.

Everything about this is also frustrating as Hell, if anyone asks Lance. But no one has and Lance doesn’t want to bring it up unless he’s prompted. Not that he’s _tried_ , but he’s pretty sure there’s no good way to talk about this when you can’t tell if you’re more frustrated that there’s no easy way to fix this shit, or that Shiro never seems particularly bothered by it. Disappointed in himself, for sure, but not as annoyed or upset about the situation as he could be.

At least dinner makes Shiro increasingly more amenable to talking. Partway through his soup and egg roll, he admits that he and Ulaz talked about lowering his dose of Xanax: “We’re not set on anything yet, so please calm down?” he says to Lance’s flushed cheeks and incoherent spluttering of concern. “For what it’s worth, Ulaz is more on _your_ side about this issue than mine. But… I don’t know?” Shiro shrugs and lets his bleached forelock droop in front of his eye. “That stuff has such a high risk for abuse that, with my history? I guess I’m still not really comfortable with taking it.”

Digging into his sesame chicken, Shiro even brings up _**That** Episode_ all on his own: “I had the playlist it’s on going on shuffle,” he says, then sighs. “But I did think about hitting, ‘skip’ on that one? Then I decided not to, since I felt like maybe I could handle it okay… Still not sure whether I did or not. I mean, I was crying earlier, but not because of that? My _Order of the Phoenix_ audiobook got the waterworks started… Anyway, today all over’s kind of been like, ‘Hello, eternal debate between self-harm and positive catharsis, my old friend. I’ve come because you’re jerking me around again,’ y’know?”

Lance does know — not in the same ways as his Shirito, but all the same — and he rewards that Simon and Garfunkel invocation by gently kicking Shiro in the shin. “D’you ever think about retiring that episode for a while, though?” he says. “I mean, I get that it’s important to you, but with the reasons why it’s important to you? Like, even if you wouldn’t call it a full-on trigger, it does always drag Lotor and Coño Maurice to the forefront of your mind, and all?”

Shrugging, Shiro shoves a piece of chicken to one end of his plate, then back over to the other. “Thought about it? A little bit, yeah. But knowing what I want to do about it? I’ve got nothing.”

Follow-up questions crop up in Lance’s mind, one after another, so quickly that half of them are stuck as feelings, more than actual words. As he’s sorting through them, a jingle down by his elbow jerks him around. Lance grabs the phone and it’s not until he reads the text message on the screen that he remembers that his phone chimes instead of jingling, like Shiro’s.

_Keith ❤️, 8:17 PM: So, are you guys practicing tonight? Since you have a show and all?_

“What’s it say?” Shiro says. “Matt still antsy about not knowing our, ‘objectifying Shiro’ cover song, yet?”

“Uh, no?” Lance spits out before he can think about whether or not a lack of self-filtering is such a good idea. “Since when does that Keith guy know we have a show on Saturday?”

“Since I told him?” Shiro gives Lance a look like, _‘Why is this even a question? You’re smart enough to figure it out yourself’_ and Lance can’t even begin to sort through his mess of feelings about that. “He texted me a little while after I got done with Ulaz. We went back and forth for a while, then he asked about the show. Look at the texts if you want to, it was all cool.”

The fact that Shiro’s making this sound so simple makes Lance twitch, but not enough to keep him from taking Shiro up on that offer. Most of his questions get ignored ( _“Uh, why does he know your tramp stamp’s origin story?”_ is met with a stonier reaction than last night’s attempt at asking how Shiro even knows this guy; at least Shiro responded to that one), or brushed aside as if Lance has no possible good reason for asking them ( _“Why are you two talking about Chicago?”_ earns Lance a roll of the eyes and a, _“Because we knew each other when I lived there? Before that, too, but we lost touch for a couple years when I went to college early”_ and nothing else

—which wouldn’t necessarily be worrisome? Except that Coño Maurice lived in Chicago too, and Shiro left Chicago to get the fuck away from Coño Maurice, and Chicago was where Shiro was living when his parents died, which happened around the time that he first met Coño Maurice. So, no matter how much Shiro doesn’t want to talk about it? Some pretty Bad Shit happened in Chicago).

True, Lance considers the idea that Keith was not involved in the Bad Shit, himself. But he was at the very least in Shiro’s proximity while said Bad Shit was going on, and close enough to Shiro that bonito designed some lion tattoo for Keith and saved his name with a freaking heart emoji. Worse, there’s not much in the texts for Lance to go on. Shiro missed Keith (but Lance knew that part already, for all he’s in the dark on why). Keith is blunt and to-the-point and almost pointedly evasive (which is only weird because Lance’s sole interaction with him — getting called out at practice — hasn’t had much room for Keith to be dodgy). Even in the couple texts where they bring up Chicago, they barely mention anything.

All of this means something about who this Keith guy is to Shiro, even if Lance has no solid idea what it is.

“So, why’d you even _invite_ him for Saturday?” Lance asks once he decides he’s satisfied, handing the phone over so he won’t have to look at it anymore. “He made it pretty clear he hates us, didn’t he?”

“He was _tired_ , Lance. Can you blame him for being angry?”

“Uh, I can blame him for being an asshole while accusing _us_ of being assholes, but maybe that’s just me.” It’s a pretty good point, if Lance does say so himself — but he wilts in the face of Shiro once more arching that eyebrow _just so_. “Seriously, _bonito_. It doesn’t even make sense as a peace offering. Why bother making the offer to him?”

“Because he asked me about the show, and no matter what you two think of each other? I want to see him.” But saying that doesn’t make Shiro seem any more assured in his supposed convictions. Instead, he looks pensive, then slouches more, and finally, he sighs. “For what it’s worth, he probably won’t show up, anyway.”

“Yeah, because he’s an elitist dick who hates our music?”

Shiro rolls his eyes. “No, because he’s _autistic_ — and before you say, ‘Well, so is Pidge’ or something? The two of them are autistic in _very_ different ways.” He pauses, but it’s in the name of eating a few forkfuls of his dinner, so for now, Lance doesn’t mind. “And things might be different for Keith now, but in Chicago? He hated going out to bars with us. He didn’t care about his fake I.D. getting carded, just about how loud and stuffy it could get.”

Leaning his chair back onto its hind legs, Lance only barely manages to restrain a sigh. “If you really want to convince me that you’re fine?” he says. “Your adorable, gay ass could try _not_ looking like your secret crush just rejected you and went to prom with someone else.”

Shiro’s cheeks twinge red without so much as a peep from him. He ducks his chin, and Lance drops his chair into place a bit more loudly than is completely necessary.

“You do not _seriously_ have a crush on him, do you?” he snaps more than he means to, but this is important, and Lance needs to make himself completely understood. “Shirito, _por favor_ , I beg of you: please, please, _please_ tell me that you only gave him that stupid heart emoji because he _broke_ yours, once upon a time? But you can’t use the broken heart icon because you’re too nice for your own good?”

“Um…” Shiro flicks his tongue across his lips, and doesn’t even try to look Lance in the eye. “I could tell you that if you really wanted? But then you’d just get mad at me for lying, and I’d deserve it, because I would totally be lying?”

“Oh, Jesus cheese-sucking _quiznak_ , _**really**_?” Hugging himself, Lance slumps onto the table, too. “You don’t even _know_ him! Not anymore, I mean.”

“I don’t… Well, no, it’s not fair to say that I don’t care?” Shiro tucks his forelock behind his ear as he thinks it over. “I _care_ that I don’t really know him anymore because, history together or not? People change. But that means he doesn’t entirely know me, either, and… I don’t _know_? What if I want to get to know him again, if he wants to let me? A lot’s happened since we last saw each other, but…”

As he trails off into a shrug, Lance groans and kicks him again (still gently, though, because roughhousing Shiro in earnest is one of the things you never do). “But what if it goes _bad_ again? What if he _doesn’t_ want to get to know you? What if he meets the bare minimum of, ‘not as much of a dick as Lotor and Coño Maurice,’ but finds other ways to make you miserable? What if he fucks with your heart and screws your head and, I don’t know? Whatever the emotional equivalent of planting pipe bombs at a Black Friday sale is!”

Shiro considers it, then shrugs. “It’s a risk, yeah? But I’d rather reach out and get burned in the end than pass up the chance that this could lead me somewhere good.”

With a smirk and a glint in his eyes, he bats his foot at Lance’s ankle. “Besides, it’s a special kind of torture, all its own, don’t you think? _Not_ knowing if somebody you’re into might reciprocate… Having to watch them going on with their life, never certain if they can’t tell you’re flirting or if maybe you’re doing something wrong…” Another playful kick. “And it’s frustrating but endearing, but driving you up a wall, and all you really, really want is to get yourself a _hunka hunk of burnin’ looooove_ —”

“ _Oh my God, shut up_!” Lance’s face must be scarlet, with how hot it’s burning, and face-planting on the table may not hide it, but fuck, he can’t look Shiro in the eye right now. “You’re the fucking _worst_ , sometimes, you know that?”

Shiro’s grin is audible as he says, “Maybe so, but only because you’re my friend, and I love you, and I want you to be happy.”

Lance flips him off, but just so Shiro won’t get any bad ideas, he mumbles, “I love you, too, you fucking dweeb.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, this chapter has been brought to you by a mix of: 1. “I felt a need to give some more attention to Shiro and his side of things here because Keith is assuming a lot of things that are not quite as accurate as he thinks they are, and he is missing several pieces of important information”;
> 
> 2\. “idk, I felt bad for Lance, because in his one appearance so far and some of the other bits that I’ve been writing, he has been getting kinda shafted by the fact that Keith is the primary POV character because Keith currently dislikes Lance a lot and is therefore biased against him in some pretty OTT ways”;
> 
> and 3. “Lance’s POV is really fun for me to write, as someone who has ADHD and headcanons that he does too, for a lot of similar reasons to why I, an actual autistic, enjoy writing Keith as autistic (but also because Lance is just really fun for me in general).”
> 
> This is more a, “fun fact” than anything else, but Lance’s given first and middle names were almost, “Lázaro Agustín” or, “Lázaro Alejandro,” because I felt like I might’ve been borrowing too much from @cubanbisexuallance and @daddyroboarm about Lance’s full name (—and a bit because I’m obnoxious about significant names and could totally see Lance making a lot out of being named after the Biblical Lazarus). But ultimately, I liked “Leandro” better for him, and flipped a coin on Alejandro vs. Agustín because I liked both of them.
> 
> The SU episode that Lance gets prickly and protective about Shiro watching is season 3’s, “[Alone At Sea](http://steven-universe.wikia.com/wiki/Alone_at_Sea).” As Lance tried to say as gently and diplomatically as possible, he gets suspicious about Shiro watching that episode [because of how intense it gets in dealing with the unhealthy relationship between Jasper and Lapis Lazuli](http://barylisk.tumblr.com/post/148114186036/you-know-as-someone-whos-been-in-an-unhealthy), because that episode hits close to home for Shiro in ways that make Lance feel like Shiro watching it is glorified emotional self-harm.
> 
> Lance isn’t wrong about that, but like a lot of the characters in this fic about something or other, there are some key places where he isn’t entirely _right_ , either.
> 
> And additions to the running tally of canon characters being referenced:
> 
>   * Plaxum has been dubbed “Paulina Úrsula Jimenez Mateo” because Lance’s name was already an acronym, and since he didn’t invent acronyms, I figured she could have one, too. Anyway, she is Lance’s ex and current coworker at the used music store, who’s super into both science-fiction and being a pastel goth mermaid;
>   * the Uni **lu ki** osk girl — dubbed, “Luki” (and I don’t remember who came up with that piece of fanon, just that I saw it around tumblr and liked it) — works with Lance and Plaxum at the used music store;
>   * Matt is Pidge’s older brother, Shiro’s friend from undergrad, and the band’s resident roadie/techie, and therefore responsible for making these nerds sound good at their shows;
>   * Rover is a lovable mutt with a lot of pitbull in him, who officially lives with Pidge and Matt but is regarded as The Band’s Dog;
>   * Ulaz is Lance’s and Shiro’s therapist. Sure, they see him for very different reasons, and Shiro was seeing him first, but… yeah, he’s treating both of them, now;
>   * in addition to fronting The Ultraviolents, Lotor is also one of Shiro’s exes, and on any given day, there is a 5,000% chance that Shiro Does Not Want To Talk About It. Lotor would probably like to talk about it, if you asked him, but Lotor is also the textbook definition of an unreliable narrator, so it’s probably best if you just don’t;
>   * and Sendak is another one of Shiro’s exes, whom Lance has never met but knows a few horror stories about, so much so that Lance basically always calls him, “Coño Maurice.” Also, Sendak’s given name is Maurice, now. With so, so many apologies to the actual Maurice Sendak, who deserved better than my crap sense of humor.
> 

> 
> Plaxum’s Wonder Woman navel ring is [very much a real thing](https://www.bodycandy.com/products/clear-gem-gold-plated-licensed-wonder-woman-logo-dangle-belly-ring).
> 
> Also, in case any of you reading didn’t know: **please[do not try to put out grease fires with water](http://www.thekitchn.com/kitchen-safety-how-to-put-out-138233)**. My sister and I made that mistake once, and it was a mess. These nerds are all _very_ lucky and Pidge stopped Shiro from doing that because seriously, it very well could have wrecked the Hunk-Lance-Shiro apartment to within an inch of its life.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> …I did say that I’m terrible at sticking to an actual update schedule, yeah? Or at least, I kind of implied that. Anyway, I’m sorry for that, and thank you for your patience. I hope this chapter doesn’t make you feel like you were waiting for nothing — and one thing that I _will_ promise is that Keith and Shiro will actually be in a scene together again in the next chapter. ♡
> 
> (……I can promise this because I’ve started writing the next chapter, they’re in the same place at the same time, and I’m not going to let it end without them having time together.)

Friday morning finds Keith ensconced in one of his Favorite Spots at the campus library’s computer lab, banging out the rest of his upcoming essays, exactly as he’d planned to do before this week fucked itself to Hell. After the run that he’s had lately, most people probably wouldn’t balk at him ditching the plans he set with himself on Monday — but that’s why Keith needs to go. Practically nothing has gone as planned this week, and Keith desperately needs to reclaim his sense of routine. Also, he doesn’t have his own computer and borrowing Allura’s gets old after a while.

Granted, shoving garbage bags and empty Mountain Dew cans into his backpack was distinctly not in Keith’s plan for today, but neither was Shiro. Or getting invited to a rock show. Certain adjustments must be made.

At least things could be going worse, Keith guesses. With midterms coming up, he expects to see more people in the lab, at least acting like they’re going to study even if they actually end up scrolling through Facebook and Tumblr. Instead, he almost has the place to himself, and so much the better. For one thing, the relative solitude means that he can have his coffee, and later his Coke, and nobody says, “Boo,” even though both are against the rules because too many people have spilled their drinks on keyboards. For another thing, Keith works better when there are fewer people around to distract him.

After three hours of work, Keith has two empty Coke bottles in one of his bags, and everything for midterms done, except for Thace’s works cited page and the so-called, “personal essay” that isn’t due until his birthday. Keith hasn’t even started that one, and none of the 650 prompt “suggestions” on the handout have helped him any. The way things have been going, he’ll most likely end up writing his essay the night before, mashing up old journal entries into something that only barely hangs together but does the job. He’ll hate it, but nothing about this class has yet been worth his time.

When Kolivan suggested taking Dr. Ryner’s class on writing quote-unquote, “creative nonfiction,” Keith expected it to be more like _In Cold Blood_. Instead, every workshop so far has involved mind-numbing wannabe _BuzzFeed Lives_ pieces about his classmates’ impacted wisdom teeth or arguments with their siblings about whether or not pineapple belongs on pizza. It doesn’t, and Shiro is the only person Keith has ever met in his life who’s disagreed with him on that, but he isn’t going to degrade himself (or give his classmates the chance to judge Shiro when they know jack-shit nothing) by writing some nonsensical clickbait-sounding bullshit about it like, “You’ll Never Believe My Not-Quite-Boyfriend-So-He-Can’t-Really-Be-An-Ex’s Controversial Opinions About Food.”

Which is fine in principle, but on the other hand, Keith’s attempted reportage about one of Shay’s protests from last semester? Went over like a lead balloon.

_“Vivid details,”_ said one classmate’s written evaluation, _“but where is the real **heart** of this story?”_

During the in-class critique, another one told Keith, _“Everything feels sort of detached, to me? Like, you were there and involved in what happened, weren’t you? So why aren’t you actually in the piece? It’s all about how everybody else might feel, so it’s like you’re trying to be a fly on the wall after the fact and I don’t know? It seems a little disingenuous, I guess.”_

In their one-on-one review session later, Ryner’s opinion on the whole mess was, _“What your classmates most likely meant to say was that they feel you haven’t truly connected with your story. You’ve told us what happened, but so far, you haven’t shown us what ties everything together. What is it that takes this series of events and binds them into a story? Your lack of personal presence in the narrative is indicative of a deeper problem in your approach, Keith.”_

As Keith sends Thace’s essay to the printer, he can’t help wondering what would happen if Ryner could read the piece that won him his first scholarship. He only got it written by pretending the events had happened to someone else. He made up a frame story and told himself that he wasn’t really opening up any old wounds because he wasn’t writing about shit that anyone had ever done to him or about anything he’d done in the name of making it to Chicago. No, he was writing about things that had happened to someone called Akira (he’d taken the name from an anime movie that Shiro’s roommate had been obsessed with). All Keith’s reflections and feelings on “Akira’s” story had been those of a third-party observer — impersonal, removed, only two steps off from a third-person omniscient narrator.

Arguably, there was no “Keith” left in the essay at all by the time he submitted it. Yet, it was good enough for a screw-up with no prospects and a GED to beat out hundreds of other essayists and net most of his first year’s tuition.

Some of his classmates might have aneurysms, if Keith ever deigned to tell them this story. But that’s something he can’t waste time dealing with right now. Instead, he slips the stapled paper for Thace into the pocket on his backpack where he could put a laptop, in a universe where he had one. He glances around the computer lab, and since no one’s paying any mind, he rounds up the abandoned bottles that are strewn around the desks. On his way out, he stops by the bin for returnable containers, and exits with the entire bag in tow.

*** * ***

Keith has only been to Michigan once, while he was on his way out here after leaving Chicago. He was bumming rides again, and one made him get out at a rest stop plaza off of I-75, about twenty-some-odd miles from the Ohio border. The roads were mangled bullshit and the air was so humid that Keith thought he’d choke — but after a few hours of digging around in trash, he made a solid twenty-five bucks, returning 250 empty Coke bottles and beer cans at a supermarket down the road from where he’d been let out.

He’d only get half that much for his efforts now, but a five-cent deposit for empty containers is better than no deposit, which is what he’d get back in Texas. So, before letting himself leave the library, Keith rifles through all the bins on every floor, clearing the basement first, then going from top to bottom. First, he checks the ones specifically for returnables. Next, he goes through the bins for general recycling, because it’s easy enough for people to accidentally drop their bottles in the wrong bins. Finally, Keith rummages through the trash, because some of the people at this school pitch things without concern for what they’re throwing where (or for the fact that _some_ people could use their empty cans and might appreciate _not_ needing to dig through the goddamn garbage).

As he repeats that process at every set of bins, Keith forces himself to take slow, deep breaths and hums, _“Just keep swimming, just keep swimming…”_ to himself like this is _Finding Nemo_. It’s stupid, but the noise helps keep him grounded, and Keith _needs_ that more than he’d willingly admit to anyone who couldn’t guess it on their own. This process of finding spare cash always sucks — it’s exhausting, time-consuming, tedious, and at the moment, sweaty, thanks to the library’s climate always running hotter than is necessary — but it’s better than the alternatives. Had he expected anything like concert tickets to come up, Keith might not have returned the cans building up in his apartment two weeks ago, but since he did, his only options are, “not getting enough from the returns” and, “digging through the trash instead.”

Or, _yeah_ , okay, he could ask Allura to spot him the cover charge and some cash for drinks — but that isn’t actually a viable option, at the moment. Keith can only handle so much crap at once. Being legitimately in her debt on top of whatever might or might not happen between him and Shiro? Not happening on Keith’s watch, thanks. Seriously, he’d rather not.

By the time he’s throwing his red hoodie back on and skulking into the crisp autumn air outside, Keith has topped off the bag he took from the computer lab, completely filled one of the bags he brought from home, and gotten about halfway through another. That’s a _very_ good haul to start with, so good that he even lets himself have a grin about it. As he huffs toward the dining hall, Keith can only hope that his luck holds out.

It does, more or less. The dining hall usually has more people in it, which means it’s harder to dig through the trash unnoticed there, but at least Keith isn’t coming in during the peak rush. People have left more containers for him to find, and Luis, the short, cuddly, deep-voiced guy on the kitchen staff says he’ll keep watch for Keith if he uses some of the meal money he was forced to sign up for and gets an actual decent lunch for once.

Although he packed some of his leftover Thai, Keith can’t argue with having an extra set of eyes. Campus security comes and goes as they please, with no patterns that Keith has ever been able to discern, and while he doesn’t _think_ he’d get in trouble for ransacking the garbage, he’d rather not press his luck. Getting caught by the wrong person could all too easily end in Keith being dragged to Coran’s office and given a well-intentioned, condescending lecture about how rifling through the trash like a raccoon isn’t acceptable student conduct, especially when you have a rich best friend. Besides, it’s easier to dig when Keith doesn’t need to worry about whether or not someone’s going to walk off with his bags.

On his way out, he gets a hug to go with the nearly five bags of that containers he’s rustled up. Most people would get a fuss out of him about it. But back in Keith’s second semester as a student here, after he lost his housing due to a convoluted mix-up about what his scholarships would and wouldn’t cover, Luis used to let him sleep on the couch in the back-room between his classes. On a couple occasions, Luis even cleared it with his manager so Keith could crash out on the sofa overnight so he wouldn’t get caught in one of his other misappropriated sleeping spots after they’d nominally closed, or get caught breaking into the backseat of someone’s car. They might not talk much now, but Luis is good folk. He’s safe for hugging.

If Keith could keep track of how many cans he’s picked up exactly, this process might be easier. But there are too many, and it’s easier to count his haul in bags. He’s up to six after he finishes hunting through the creative arts building, and for once, he’s grateful of how many dumb-ass freshmen think it’s a laugh-riot to steal carts from Stop-N-Shop. They leave the things littered all over campus, and yeah, it’s precarious, balancing some of his bags in one of them, but that’s still better than trying to lug the bags around on his own. Once he hits eight bags, Keith takes to dragging a second cart around; it’s awkward but there’s no other way to transport everything, and Keith would rather not make multiple trips if he can help it.

At least he can rack up a couple good deeds by returning these carts to the store when he’s done with them. Who even knows how long they’ve been here, just kicking around campus where they don’t belong and weren’t helping anybody until Keith got to them.

By the time he’s filling bag number 11, Keith is seriously considering turning in already. There’s no shame in that when he’s gathered so many bottles and cans already, and anyway, he still needs to actually return them. But as he’s dragging his haul past one of the campus coffee-shops, he spots a barista carrying two bags of trash out to a dumpster in the alley. Back when he sometimes slept there, Keith saw more than enough instances of customers throwing returnables into the trashcans or employees putting returnables out like garbage. It might be a long-shot, but it could potentially make the difference between, “Keith spends all of the money he makes from this going to Shiro’s show and trying to act like normal people do in bars,” and, “Keith goes to the show like he’s planning but also has some extra cash afterward.”

In another lucky turn, one bag at the top of the dumpster is full of more free money shaped like empty cans that other people didn’t want (possibly with a few non-returnables mixed in, but Keith can live with that). Another bag has several bottles in amongst the garbage. The more Keith digs, the more he finds, and as much as he generally isn’t fond of delving through trash, he’ll put up with it in the name of spare cash. As the sun starts sinking lower, the only thing that pulls Keith out of his excavating is — _arp, yarp, rark!_

Perking up but not climbing out of the dumpster, Keith glances around the alley. He frowns when the source of the barking doesn’t make itself immediately obvious. It sounds familiar, for all he really hopes he’s wrong, but there are probably a lot of dogs who sound like the one Keith’s thinking of. With a sigh, he goes back to picking through a bag, and the noise comes back again: _arp, arp, rark!_

This time, the dog comes into view, a skinny but energetic little mess of long black and brown fur darting into the alley and right over to Keith’s dumpster. Dammit — sometimes he hates it when he’s right. Groaning softly, Keith crouches down, but it’s too late: an affectionate, mostly Shetland Sheepdog mutt scuttles past Keith’s shopping carts and jumps up onto his hind legs, pawing at the dumpster’s wall. A ring of fur is matted down around his neck, right where his collar’s supposed to be, and as he stares up at Keith, his face lights up almost like he’s smiling. Almost like he’s actually happy to have found Keith. Under most normal circumstances, Keith wouldn’t mind seeing him, but at the moment?

“Ugh, Jesus, Rufus, no,” Keith says. “Not right now, okay? Go on, leave.”

For a moment, he drops back to the pavement, but he’s back up there soon enough, barking at Keith like he expects a treat for showing up. Given how many times he’s gotten food out of Keith before, that’s not an unreasonable expectation on his part. Yeah, Keith knows better than to give human food to other people’s dogs, but he loses his will so easily when Rufus wanders over and sits by his feet during one of Kolivan’s or Antok’s classes. He turns into a total pushover when Rufus cuddles up to his legs. Most dogs Keith’s ever met have only been marginally less awful to him than most of the people in his life, but Rufus has only ever been good and sweet to him, and normally, he’d play along. But right now is just about the _worst time_ for Rufus to pull this kind of stunt, and—

“Rufus, _no_ ,” Keith huffs while the poor guy barks at him, waving a hand at the brick wall opposite. It does nothing to make Rufus back down, but Keith keeps motioning for him to shoo. “God, Rufus, come on, I don’t have anything — I can’t play right now, okay? … _No_ , okay? Please stop looking at me like that — go on, shoo… _Please_ shoo? …Oh for the love of—”

“Keith,” says a calm, deep voice that makes Keith instinctively straighten up, no matter how much he wants to hide because this is about the worst possible place to get caught by your advisor.

At least Kolivan isn’t looking right at Keith, though. He has to get Rufus’s collar back on, and by the time he straightens up himself, Keith’s steadied his nerves enough to fake a respectful smile, even as Kolivan drags his hard blue eyes over Keith. Judging from how pointedly Kolivan arches his thick eyebrow, it’s not exactly a convincing smile, but considering that he has been busted in the act of dumpster-diving, there’s probably no way that Keith could say, _“I’m fine, it’s fine, nothing to see here, everything’s fine”_ and make Kolivan believe him. Shaking his head, Kolivan whips his long, gray-and-ginger braid off the back of his neck and lets it droop over his shoulder. He watches Keith as though he has several things he wants to say, but might be testing Keith by giving him the first move instead.

“…Uh, I meant to send you an email about missing class yesterday?” Keith tries, and he isn’t entirely lying about that. “But I also didn’t mean to skip in the first place? It’s — I’d barely slept for ten days, I forgot to set an alarm, then I… well. I mean, do you _want_ to hear the story, or is it more important that I went over what I missed with Allura?”

“If explaining the situation is important to you, then I will gladly listen.” Kolivan doesn’t physically shrug, but his tone does it for him. “However, as you have proven yourself to be one of the few students I can trust not to skip my classes flippantly, I will not require you to provide the details.”

“Thanks for that, sir,” Keith makes himself say properly instead of muttering, giving Kolivan a grateful nod because that’s what you’re supposed to do if someone lets you off easy when they could chew you out instead.

Even so, he’s never sure how to respond when personal details come up in any chat with Kolivan. Ever since the assigned journals he made them turn in for one of last year’s classes, there’s been an odd feeling between the two of them whenever they’ve skirted close to the odds and ends of Keith’s life outside the classroom. Keith can’t put a name on it, exactly, and offhand, he can’t think of what he might’ve done to make it exist. All the journals required was a bunch of babbling about the term projects Kolivan had them working on, and Keith definitely wrote some entries while so sleep-deprived that he doesn’t entirely remember what he said, but several pages of his didn’t even have check-marks on them, so Kolivan probably didn’t read them.

Clearing his throat, Kolivan wrinkles his nose at Keith. “If you are in the mood to explain yourself about something, though, why did Rufus find you hiding in a dumpster?”

“I am not hiding, I’m……” _Digging for a lost contact lens? Wait, no, I don’t wear contact lenses. Climbing out after someone threw me in here? No, this isn’t high school, who even does that anymore. Shit, he’s gonna get impatient—_ “I’m collecting empty Coke cans for the five-cent deposit. Because someone invited me to a concert tomorrow night — or I guess it’s actually a show, like calling it a, ‘concert’ isn’t _punk rock_ enough? But my next grant check doesn’t come until next week, and you can only find so much hidden in the student center couches.”

Not that Keith bothered looking in their cushions today. It was awkward enough, trying to go unnoticed while dragging around five bags of free money.

“This person must be quite special indeed, if they can persuade you to attend a punk rock show,” he says as easily as he might comment on the weather. “Considering your sensitivities and the high potential for sensory overwhelm at most performances of that nature, you must desperately want to see them.”

Although he brings up Keith’s _sensitivities_ without a hint of judgment, Kolivan keeps his eyes fixed on Keith as though he’s intent on finding an answer, no matter what he needs to do. Even though he always does this when having any conversation with anybody, it makes the hair on the back of Keith’s neck prick up. If Keith could have that without his cheeks flushing pink, he’d mind it less. But as it is, he might as well be an open book for Kolivan, and he doesn’t even know what questions his advisor’s really asking or what sorts of answers he wants to get out of Keith.

There’s no sense in trying to play it cool, but Keith shrugs and hopes for the best. “He’s not… Well, I mean, he isn’t _not_ special? But saying that he definitely _is_ special has all kinds of linguistic baggage, right? Like, I don’t know, it’s not _complicated_? But I kind of… I don’t really _know_ what it is.”

He would let this be the end of any Shiro-related discussion, but wilts as he looks up at Kolivan’s expectant face. “I don’t desperately want to see him, though,” Keith says. “Do I want to see him again? Yes. But I’m not _desperate_ about it.”

Kolivan hums pensively, then sighs. Without outright saying so, he seems to be telling Keith, _“I can’t tell you how to live your life, advisee, but perhaps it would behoove you not to lie to yourself so egregiously, or at least to do a more thorough inventory of your feelings before making claims about them.”_

All he says aloud is, “Could you meet with me after class on Monday, Keith? Nothing is wrong with you or your work this semester — quite the opposite. But I do have something that I wish to discuss with you, if you don’t mind.”

Keith says, _“Yes”_ before letting himself think about it. For once, though, his brain catches up with his mouth, and finds that he doesn’t regret a thing. That might change later, but for now, Keith’s agreement gives Kolivan enough peace of mind to bid Keith good evening, and this lets Keith finish up his work in peace.

*** * ***

The problem with finishing the work is that, once Keith’s done so, he has to negotiate his precariously-balanced bags out of the freaking alley. He has to cram as many of them as he can into the shopping carts, then try not to let the others drag along the ground, because even heavy-duty bags can catch on glass or rocks or the gutters or _anything_ , then rip right open and spill out everywhere. He has to check before trying to hit the sidewalk, because there’s no way for him to avoid being seen like this, but at least he can try to do this without hitting anybody.

As Keith maneuvers around another pedestrian and halts at his first crosswalk, he makes a mental note to do something extra-nice for Shay next week. She was the one who sold him on the idea of getting these heavy-duty bags in the first place, during last year’s, “start of a new academic year, so let’s put aside any other objections to big-box bulk stores because we need supplies” trip to the CostCo a few towns over. Allura insisted on paying for them, yeah — just like she insisted on paying for Keith’s shampoo, detergent, toothpaste, and cleaning supplies, because he doesn’t have a membership there and even if he did, he couldn’t have afforded most of what he got without her help — but Shay made the point that the heavy-duty trash bags were a better use of money than the ones that might rip if you tried to use them for more than a few banana peels.

The bags came in a huge box with two rolls inside, and Keith and Shay each took one of them. Aside from how reliable they are, Keith hasn’t even used up half of them. So, he’s not sure what he should do to thank Shay, but he’s going to find _something_. She made a good call, and you’re supposed to thank people who help you out.

When the light changes, Keith’s back to work, dragging his plunder across the street, then through the quad and over to the Westends Gate. From there, it’s still another mile-and-a-half to Stop-N-Shop, some of which will mean going uphill. As though that’s not enough, Keith has to do it while carrying his backpack. Maybe he should’ve made multiple trips after all, but it’s too late to change his mind on that. He can’t ask anyone to babysit his trash bags for him while he runs back and forth to the store multiple times. Even if they wouldn’t mind, Keith would likely have to pay them, and that defeats the purpose of this entire misadventure.

After a few long blocks, Keith ducks into another alley and slumps against the bricks, dropping his loose bags and letting his backpack down by his feet. As he takes several deep breaths and tries to steady his nerves, he gets his nostrils smacked by the mix of the dumpster’s garbage, a pizza place’s heady mix of tomato sauce and meat and spices, and something Keith can’t identify, hovering around the old van parked underneath somebody’s fire escape. Groaning, he only barely keeps himself from hitting his head against the wall behind him, and another deep breath helps get him centered.

Keith doesn’t _need_ to pause like this, he tells himself. Or anyway, he doesn’t feel winded. Part of him wants a nap, but given how low the sun is getting in the sky, that probably makes sense. His back and shoulders feel tight, he guesses, but grinding them against the bricks helps. He’s sore, that’s it. Sore, and maybe a little grumpy (though he’s feeling a perfectly acceptable amount of it, given what he’s been up to), but this has to be the extent of what’s going on with him, because he _can’t_ be tired yet. He slept fine last night and had a decent lunch today, and yes, he spent a few hours jaunting around campus and trawling through the garbage, but he can’t be tired because he still has work to do. If Keith doesn’t get this mess of cans returned, then he wasted his entire Friday and he’ll end up either in Allura’s debt or missing Shiro’s show.

Digging his fingers at the bridge of his nose, he tells himself to shove off the wall and get back to his walk. But he doesn’t do it. His head says to get moving, but his legs tell him that he can afford to wait another moment or two. He doesn’t perk up until he picks out someone saying _something_. It takes Keith a moment to tune in properly, but—

“Hey, are you okay? D’you need a hand? Or can I…”

They trail off as Keith makes himself look up from the grimy pavement, and as he blinks and furrows his brow at the guy who’s found him, Keith can’t blame him for going quiet. For once, he remembers the guy by looking at him. He’s big; there’s no other word for it. Taller than Keith by at least a couple inches and probably broader in the chest and shoulders than Kolivan, with a sizable, soft-looking belly pressing against the fabric of his sweatshirt. Even as his shoulders droop and his smile fades, his brown eyes have a gentle glimmer to them, and thanks to the orange sweatband keeping his dark hair off his round face, Keith can see them better than he did on Thursday morning.

“Hey, it’s you, you’re…” Keith sighs and snaps his fingers in an attempt to kick himself in the memory, but fuck — for the life of him, he’s got nothing on this guy’s name. “Big Man. Plays the drums for Shiro’s — I mean, Galaxy Garrison.”

He tilts his head like he can’t tell how to read Keith, or maybe like he’s having trouble with how Keith almost called Galaxy Garrison, _“Shiro’s band,”_ as if none of the other members matter. After a moment, though, Big Man says, “Uh, hello, yeah, hi? Actually, the name is Hunk.”

“Sure, okay.” Keith shrugs. “Sorry, but I called my best friend, ‘Princess’ for six weeks because that’s how long it took me to learn her name. Only got away with that because she kinda _is_ a Princess, so she didn’t mind. Like, I’m not _trying_ to be rude or anything, just…” He gestures vaguely, and hopes that it conveys something in the vicinity of, _“Nothing personal, because you seem like you might be a decent person and all? But even if we hadn’t met the way we did, we probably wouldn’t end up being friends”_ — but hopefully a little more polite.

“Oh, man, that’s nothing,” Big Man says with a hearty, earnest laugh. “I mean, one of my uncles back home can’t keep me or any of my cousins straight. One summer when I was like, eight or nine? He spent three weeks calling me Talia, ‘cause we’re close in age and I guess we kinda looked pretty similar, back then? I mean, he can tell us apart _now_ , but then he’ll still go through five or six names before remembering which of his nieces and nephews he wants to talk to? Or this one other time when I was like, thirteen? Lance talked his parents into letting me tag along to some family reunion because his older sister got to bring her girlfriend and he was _super_ jealous, and one of his _tías_ kept calling both of us by his eldest brother’s name, then called his brother _Hunk_ , and…”

He trails off into awkward silence again, then punctuates it by forcing a smaller laugh. Scratching at the back of his neck, he says, “So, uh… Those your shopping carts? You need any help with them or anything? You’re trying to get them all back to Stop-N-Shop, right?”

“Why would you want to help me?” Keith tries not to frown at him _too_ much. Whatever’s gone on with him and Shiro, whatever _might_ go on with him and Shiro, none of it is Big Man’s fault, and unlike that Lance guy and the keyboardist, he actually seemed sorry when Keith yelled at them. Anyway, it’s like Allura said: keeping the lines of communication open will probably be beneficial and mean that Keith doesn’t need to yell so much.

When Big Man says nothing, just looks at Keith as though he’s started speaking Klingon, Keith tells him, “No offense, but seriously, why would you… I mean, I appreciate the offer? But I was kind of aggressive with you and your friends the other night?”

“Yeah, well, you were sleep-deprived and Lance can be a little bit much? …Or even a lot bit much. …He can just be a bit much in general, y’know?” He grins apologetically and shrugs. “So, I can’t really blame you for getting pissed at him. He and Pidge have it out a lot worse than you did a couple times a month. I mean, I love them and all, I wouldn’t trade them for anything but… I get why you guys might butt heads. Especially when you were tired.”

Folding his arms over his chest, Big Man sighs with the deep, long-suffering air of somebody who is way too accustomed to apologizing for his boyfriend and their short pal with the glasses. “Hey, I know we kinda got off on the wrong foot and all? But I have a van, you kinda have a lot of pop bottles in all those bags, and… I don’t know, we’re not practicing tonight so Pidge can sleep and Shiro won’t over-stress his voice—”

“Yeah, from what I could hear, he’s probably chugging hot tea and barely speaking above a whisper.” Keith says it without thinking, but breathes a little easier when Big Man laughs at it. “Not that I ever — not that it was… I _might_ have had a few unfair thoughts about it toward the end of the night, like right before I yelled at you? His singing, and your guys’ music in general, but some of it’s a matter of personal preference and…”

A thought occurs, making Keith cut himself off. With a huff, he slouches and hugs himself. “Shiro didn’t put you up to this, did he? Like, ‘Be nice to Keith or I’m gonna be very disappointed in you’?”

“Uh, how could he put me up to _anything_? I mean, he got kinda giddy and flustered when you first texted him, but all he’s said since then is that you’re probably not showing up tomorrow night and if you do, then he doesn’t want Lance or Pidge to start anything with you. And if they do, then _yeah_ , he’ll probably be very disappointed in them, but seriously? How could he put me up to anything when I _randomly_ happened to find you?”

At least with that explanation out there, Big Man stops looking at Keith like he might be crazy. Granted, it’s not much better with him frowning as though he feels bad for Keith, but maybe it’s not meant to be condescending. Maybe Big Man is just kind of sensitive like that. Still, Keith’s not sure what he’s supposed to say to Big Man right now. There have been no clauses for, “Talking to someone who is friends with a guy with whom you used to have an ill-defined and mixed up _Something_ , and apologizing to this new person because you assumed that they’re only being nice because of your not-exactly-ex- _Someone_ ’s intervention” in any of the social scripts that Keith’s ever gotten punished for not knowing.

“Man, I know that Shiro’s smart about a lot of things,” Big Man says, after Keith’s been quiet for too long. “Like, he went to college super-early, and he still got a 4.0 GPA right after his parents died, and he was a joy to have in class, and all that stuff? I’ve seen the old gifted and talented kid awards his aunt and his brother won’t let him get rid of, I’ve watched him read super-dense academic stuff for fun, and when we all went to Lance’s family reunion this past summer? He and Lance’s middle sister, Marimar, they got into this huge, weird, debate-y discussion-type _thing_? And, like, it started with, ‘So, what do you think about the Ted Hughes translation of _Bodas de sangre_ ,’ but then lasted for, like, six hours and I don’t know exactly _what_ they thought they were on about? But in the times when I tuned back in, they’d somehow dragged in Pablo Neruda, Frida Kahlo, Beyoncé, the _Fifty Shades_ books and Shiro’s one ex we all hate being a dumb-ass about them, _America’s Next Top Model_ , something about gender politics in the Brontës, then _Rupaul’s Drag Race_ , and their top ten reasons why Andy Warhol was a total douchebag.”

After that tirade, Keith’s half-surprised that Big Man only needs to take a few deep breaths. But as he’s getting himself back together, Keith tells him, “Yeah, that sounds like Shiro. He likes talking to people. Sometimes, he gets excited.”

“ _Okaaaay_ ,” Big Man says and nearly sounds like Keith’s trying his patience. “But my point is that, smart as Shiro is? It’s not like he’s psychic. And, y’know, a couple weeks ago, he almost burned down our apartment while trying to make grilled cheese. So, like I said, how could he _possibly_ know that I’d run into you?”

As reasonable as his objection seemed a few moments ago, Keith has to concede that Big Man has a point. But at the same time… “Why _did_ you run into me?”

Big Man shrugs and takes a plastic bag out of his sweatshirt’s kangaroo pocket. “I used Pidge’s student ID to hang out at your guys’s library for a while, then stopped to pick up a some cords for Matt — he’s our roadie, he’s kind of a nerd but he’s cool — and some extra strings for Lance’s acoustic guitar so he won’t run out. I was on my way back to my van and… Well, here you were.”

The fact that the keyboardist apparently goes to school here too is interesting, but Keith files it away for later. He’s never run into her outside of yelling at her band, so they’re probably in different departments. Either way, Keith has more immediately pressing things to handle, like the fact that Big Man’s given him a better explanation than Keith could’ve expected, but he still can’t think of anything to say.

Putting the bag back, Big Man sighs and holds up his hands in mock-surrender. “Look, Keith, you don’t have to accept it if you really _want_ to drag all that stuff to Stop-N-Shop by yourself? But I’ve got free time and a van, and you really, _really_ have a lot of pop cans in your shopping carts? So, I don’t know what’s up with you and Shiro, but he’s not putting me up to anything. I’m just offering to help you out because it looked like you needed help.”

On one hand, that makes perfect sense. On the other, though, nobody on the planet is ever this nice without there being _something deeply **wrong**_ with them, not even Shiro and Allura. Maybe they didn’t have any bodies hidden beneath their floorboards or walled up in their cellars, but they’re far from picture-perfect examples of emotional stability. Keith may not know what Shay’s damage is just yet, but he knows that she has to have it, and when push shoves, Big Man here is probably going to be a very similar story. He might not be some kind of secret axe-murderer — at the moment, Keith would feel reasonably confident in betting that he isn’t — but there’s got to be _something_ wrong with him, to make him be so _nice_ when Keith, admittedly, has hardly been on his best behavior.

But on the tentacle, Keith _really_ doesn’t want to lug his haul to Stop-N-Shop by himself. With a huff, he drags his hand back through his hair and nods.

“That’d be really — y’know, just… Thanks, Big Man.” He starts to smile, but falters under Big Man’s arched eyebrow. “……Hunk? …Right. Thank you, _Hunk_.”

*** * ***

Working together, Keith and Hunk get the van’s backseats down and pack the bags in quite easily. It takes more delicate finagling to get the shopping carts shoved in there, too, but at least Hunk understands why Keith doesn’t want to leave them in the alley, so they find a way to make it work. The van’s radio blasts Salt N Pepa when Hunk starts it up, and although he doesn’t swap out the music, he gives Keith another sheepish grin while he’s waiting for a traffic-break he can pull out into.

He doesn’t relax until Keith joins in on, _“Um, you’re packed and you’re stacked, ‘specially in the back / Brother, wanna thank your mother for a butt like that. / Can I get some fries with that shake-shake booty?”_

Whether he cracks up at this from nerves or from how stupid Keith no doubt sounds right now, Keith can’t tell. Even with how nice Hunk’s been so far, Keith’s money would be on the latter. For starters, it’s been a while since he last heard this song, so he’s playing catch-up with the lyrics, which has got to sound ridiculous. Even if he weren’t, though, Keith isn’t Allura, Shay, or Shiro. Unlike the lot of them, Keith has all the rhythm of a goldfish flopping on a hot, dry sidewalk in the middle of August. He can’t dance to save his life, and he definitely can’t rap, or even stay vaguely on-beat while talking along with someone else’s rap song.

Still, though, Hunk has a nice laugh. Warm, hearty, full-bodied. It gets a chuckle out of Keith as well, and as he slouches in the passenger seat, he catches himself smiling and meaning it, for once. It’s small, but a genuine smile still counts for a lot, to Keith, no matter how small it is.

Apparently, the music is because the van actually belongs to Matt, who lets Shiro have a standing claim on picking which mix CD goes in the player, but Keith only shrugs at that explanation. Why Hunk wants to apologize for something that isn’t a problem, he has no idea. But Hunk’s not hurting anybody, and when they get to Stop-N-Shop, he’s quick about helping get Keith’s bags to the bottle-return, so Keith won’t argue.

He also doesn’t argue when Hunk decides to stick around and help, for all Keith pauses and asks what Hunk thinks he’s doing with Keith’s bottles.

“Uh, returning them?” Hunk says as though it’s taking an absurd amount of effort for him not to point out that this should be pretty obvious, when he’s standing there with an empty Pepsi container in his hand, hovering in front of one machine’s return slot. “Dude, I told you that I have free time tonight, and you really, _really_ have a lot of bottles here. It’ll go faster with two of us, and I don’t need the cash deposit, so you’ll still get everything.”

Even if Keith had objections to the extra help, he couldn’t poke any holes in that logic.

For a while, they work in relative silence, shoveling cans and bottles through the slots, separating out the few glass ones that Keith collected, pocketing the return-slips every time they hit a hundred returns, and listening to whatever music comes on the speakers. As Natalie Cole starts in on, “This Will Be (An Everlasting Love),” Hunk shuffles to the far-right machine, blushing a bit as he explains that he’s filled up the middle one, so it cut him off. Whatever — Keith could’ve told that by looking at the message on the middle one’s screen, which promises that a staff member is on their way to assist you, but he shrugs and keeps going through his bags. It’s all going well, ’til partway through, “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun,” when Keith fills up the machine on the left. Not long after that, Hunk fills up the one on the right as well.

They still have three-and-a-half bags left to go through, but all they can do right now is lean against the wall and wait. Keith would be more than content to do this in silence, but Hunk is another story. As a Stop-N-Shop team member looks over the three error screens and sighs, Hunk nudges his shoulder into Keith’s.

“So, uh. What’re you turning all these bottles in for, anyway?” he says, barely toning down his eagerness to ask this question (or maybe it’s anxiety at the silence? Keith can’t tell). “What, do you owe some guys some money? Saving up for next semester’s textbooks? Are you gonna buy some Nyquil off your neighbors after all so you can sleep through our rehearsals?”

Although he considers spinning an elaborate lie by way of telling Hunk he doesn’t want to talk about it, Keith can’t feel good about that idea, not when Hunk’s been so nice and really seems to mean it. So, Keith sighs and tells him, “No, I just… Didn’t want to ask my best friend for money so I could go to the show tomorrow.”

Hunk splutters out a few noises that sound like they dream of being words when they grow up. “Did Shiro not tell you the cover charge? I mean, it’s only five bucks? What, is this like some totally Hermione Granger overachieving thing? Like, you’re in some contest about who can return the most pop cans and there’s no way you’re gonna lose?”

“He told me, but I wanted to be safe, and I’d still have to pay for drinks inside, and…” Keith knocks his head against the wall, but softly, because if Hunk thinks that he’s a damaged mess, he might tell Shiro, which could make all of this more complicated and difficult than it already might be. Shoving his hands in his pockets so he can’t hug himself and risk attracting notice, Keith adds, “And I never got that into _Harry Potter_ , actually.”

“Wait, really?” Hunk furrows his brow as though Keith just admitted that he’s an alien. “I mean, no offense, but how can you not like _Harry Potter_? It’s kinda like our generation’s thing, isn’t it?”

“I guess, but why does that mean I have to like it?” He clenches one hand around his phone. Keith only decides to tell the truth because, if Hunk is anything like most of the people Keith’s ever met in his life, then he almost definitely won’t believe him: “Look, it’s not that the books are _bad_ or anything. It was just hard for _me_ to get into them when, instead of parents, I had this one foster brother called Rob who liked making his dog chase me up trees and breaking his own toys so I couldn’t get them as hand-me-downs. Oh, and I had another one called Bryce who liked locking me in the cupboard under his parents’ stairs, among other things.”

For a moment, Hunk slouches and looks so pensive, Keith can practically see the gears turning in his head. He’s almost in the clear — almost certain that Hunk is yet another person who doesn’t believe even a fraction of what Keith’s been through — but then Hunk has to ask him, “Is Bryce… Did he play lacrosse with Shiro when they were in high school? Or is that a different jerk, who locked a _different_ foster brother out of the house so he could have sex with his girlfriend, and just kinda happened to have the same first name as your Bryce?”

_Goddamn it_ — Keith gives up and hugs himself after all. He has to hold a deep breath for a count of ten before he can nod and tell Hunk, “No, they’re the same Bryce. I never understood how Shiro could stomach being friends with him or any of the guys in their group when they were such _assholes_ and he was, like, _not_? But I don’t know, I guess everybody does dumb things in high school, right?”

“Well, yeah, but I mean, the most that me and Lance did in high school was, like? The time we went to steal our rival school’s mascot statue before the big homecoming game, but the guys at Central pranked it with a ton of stink-bombs and balloons filled with paint.” Hunk nudges against Keith’s shoulder again, almost like he’s trying to get Keith to open up and hug him. “I’m pretty sure locking your brother in the cupboard under the stairs isn’t _dumb_ so much as it’s _abusive_?”

“My old case-worker agreed with you, but I didn’t mean Bryce. I was talking more about Shiro being friends with Bryce.” Just because they’ve gotten onto this track doesn’t mean he wants to stay here, especially not if Hunk’s going to believe him about it. “Not that I’m complaining in retrospect, because Bryce’s other friends were dicks like him, and Shiro was about the only one who could ever rein them in? But he could’ve done way better for himself. Like, God, Ryou was about as charismatic as a kick to the nuts, but even he had friends who really listened to him, and didn’t only fake-listen when they wanted to cheat off his homework.”

Hunk chuckles, but there’s not much feeling behind it. “Yeah, Ryou really can be kind of an acquired taste, can’t he?”

“I mean, he might’ve gotten better? But the last time I saw him was, like…” Keith has to rack his brain on the exact dates, it’s been that long. “Around Christmas of 2012? When I was staying with Shiro and Mark, back in Chicago. Ryou’d been on some study abroad thing in Tokyo… No wait, I think that was the Christmas before. Either way, Aunt Satomi made him come to her place.”

Which probably had something to do with Ryou’s brother being a human disaster at the time, but Aunt Satomi never confirmed anything about that. Anyway, she’d let Shiro bring Keith with him for the long holiday weekend, which was more than Keith would’ve asked for. True, she pulled him aside while her nephews tried to school each other in _Mario Kart_ and grilled him pretty hard about Shiro’s mental health — was he sleeping decently, how were his nightmares, how much was he _really_ drinking because Satomi wasn’t sure she trusted his estimates (and she shouldn’t have), was he still working at that used bookstore or had he said anything about graduate school while helping Keith get his GED then using his trust fund to pay for Keith’s community college courses, what did Keith think about this _Maurice_ character and would he have described him as, _“Shiro’s boyfriend”_ — but overall, she’d treated Keith like family. She’d even gotten him gifts, like the backup winter coat he still has at his apartment. It’s seen him through enough blizzards to pay for itself ten times over.

Thankfully, none of that is what Hunk was asking, so Keith shoves it back to the depths of his mind where it belongs.

As something clatters over by the return-machines, Keith shrugs and smirks up at Hunk. “Like, I’m not saying that people can’t change or anything? But I hadn’t seen Ryou in five years by my first Christmas there. Sure, he was taller and he had different hair than he’d done in Corpus Christi? But he still made _me_ feel socially proficient by comparison. So, if you ask me, going off to MIT didn’t change him _that_ much.”

“I dunno, man, you’re not that bad? You’re doing pretty well, talking to me?” Although Hunk tries to smile, it doesn’t last. “I mean, unless you’re feeling awkward right now. I’m not making you feel awkward, am I? Because if I am, I swear I didn’t mean to?”

Keith is grateful for the Stop-N-Shop team member cutting in to tell them that the machines are all in working order again. Going back to his work with the bottles gives him an extra moment to consider his words before he explains, “You’re fine, Big Man. I’m just not really good with people. Most of them don’t like me, either, no matter what I do. And I don’t know where things might go with me and Shiro, but if it makes you feel better? It still means something to me that he’s one of the few people in my life who hasn’t treated me like garbage.”

As he’s setting another glass bottle in the bottom of his cart, Hunk blinks uncomprehendingly at Keith. “Uh, why would it matter how I feel? He’s my friend, we look out for each other, but you seem like an okay guy and I’m not gonna helicopter over his choices when they aren’t actually _bad_ ones. Like, y’know, trying to put out a grease fire with water? That’s a bad choice, he’s on kitchen probation for that. If he started hooking up with his _Fifty Shades_ ex again, or listening to him when he says he’s changed? Yeah, I’d be like, ‘Shiro, no, he’s a liar and you know this, do not pay attention, just leave him alone to be miserable without you. Go make out with Matt or Lance if you really need to kiss someone that badly, because they _actually care about you_ and they’ll almost definitely say yes.’”

He pauses for breath (during which Keith gets another ten bottles into the machine), then goes on, saying, “No, I don’t know what’s up with you and Shiro, or what has been up, or what might be even in the same general ballpark vicinity of up between the two of you? But you yelling at us to keep it down was actually kinda called for, and I say that you’re innocent ’til proven guilty, so…” Hunk shrugs and smiles shyly. “Not that you actually _need_ my blessing or anything, since anything with you is Shiro’s call, not mine? But I like you, so… if you _want_ my blessing for anything, you’ve got it.”

If Hunk is _trying_ to catch Keith off his guard, then he’s succeeding, because Keith has no idea why they’re even talking about this. It sounds like Hunk thinks he’s interrogated Keith about his intentions with Shiro, but has he, really? And what the Hell does he think he’s learned from _anything_ that Keith’s told him? It’s all whatever, though, Keith guesses. Giving his not-quite-blessing has clearly made Hunk happy enough to finish their work in silence, and at least one of Shiro’s band-mates doesn’t think that Keith’s an irredeemable asshole who talks like a cranky senior citizen.

When all’s said and done, Keith leaves Stop-N-Shop with $62.75, a free ride home, and Hunk’s astonishment at how he even managed to find 1,255 empty containers around campus, much less think he could return all of them by himself. Everything’s more or less back to something resembling a plan, until Hunk asks to see Keith’s phone before he lets Keith out of the van. He saves his number on Keith’s favorites list, with a smiley face emoji next to it, and as Keith checks for anything else that Hunk might’ve touched, he notices that Hunk moved Shiro to the favorites list as well.

The only other names on the list are Allura, Coran, Kolivan because Keith house-and-dog-sat for him and Antok this past summer (and Kolivan insists that, as his advisee, Keith has permission to call him in the event that he needs help with anything), Shay because having her there makes Keith’s life easier, campus security, the financial aid office, and the shawarma place down the block, where they know his name and his usual order.

“Shoot me a text when you get upstairs,” Hunk tells Keith with a smile. “I mean, if you don’t want to, that’s okay? But… hey, if you ever wanna hang out or talk or anything? Or, hey, do you like dogs? Because we have a dog — the band has a dog, I mean. Technically, Matt and Pidge adopted him, but he’s kinda everybody’s dog, and I can totally send you pics of him in silly hats or something?”

“Thanks, Big Man. I think, like… This sounds great.” It’s not until he’s back in his room and firing off a text ( _“Thanks again for all your help today, but remember: you never heard me sing along to Hit Me Baby One More Time”_ ), that Keith realizes he wasn’t bullshitting to make spare Hunk’s feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thank you all for your patience, both in waiting for chapters and for (I hope) indulging me in yet another chapter where Keith and Shiro aren’t in a scene together. This update actually took so long because I kept beating my head against an original plan where they _would_ have scenes together…… but all of them were flashbacks, and I felt like, and everything got too messy and complicated in my attempts at stitching the present-day events and flashbacks together in a way that both made sense and felt “emotionally true.”
> 
> After about a combined ~10k of different drafts that tried to make that idea work, I realized I was doing pretty much everything that I bag on all of the, “must-read classics” authors I hated reading in undergrad for doing (—everything short of having sentences that go on for an entire page like Marcel Proust or throwing around gratuitous $25 words like James Joyce, Thomas Pynchon, and my AP Lit teacher from high school). So, I saved the writing in case I want it later but went back to the drawing board on how the chapter was going to look.
> 
> Basically, no, this isn’t the chapter that I thought I was going to write and I still have some mixed feelings about it, but it’s actually written (unlike all of its half-baked predecessors) and I like better than all the drafts that I nixed.
> 
> Additions to the running toll of canon characters who have been referenced in this fic:
> 
>   * Ryner teaches Keith’s creative nonfiction writing class, which is one of the current banes of Keith’s academic existence;
>   * Akira of _GoLion_ was Keith’s alter ego for an essay he wrote that got him his first scholarship to help pay for college;
>   * Shiro’s ex-roommate Mark has no actual canon analogue because he is the fictional character equivalent of a moderately interesting lamp: he serves a purpose and has a couple notable traits but he’s not actually a huge part of the story;
>   * Luis who works on the dining hall’s kitchen staff is the cuddly, deep-voiced Arusian who hugged Keith that one time;
>   * Ryou is Shiro’s younger twin brother, a la _GoLion_ , but because my knowledge of _GoLion_ is all secondhand, his personality is going to be more inspired by VLD’s Kuron;
>   * Shiro and Ryou’s Aunt Satomi has no canon analogue, she’s an OC part of my headcanons about Shiro’s family and she gets to be more involved in this fic’s backstory because Shiro and Ryou’s parents are dead;
>   * Likewise, Bryce and Rob have no canon analogues, they are literally just Keith’s douchebag OC ex-foster brothers;
>   * and Rufus, Kolivan and Antok’s dog, is yet another character who doesn’t have a canon analogue. He just gets a special mention because he is a fictional shout-out to an IRL Sheltie mutt named Rufus, who got adopted by one of my favorite profs from undergrad and who sometimes came to class with said prof on Fridays.
> 



	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’d just like to take this moment to formally apologize to any desks, tables, or other hard surfaces that may or may not end up dented as a result of the sheer amount of facedesk-worthy nonsense coming out of Keith in this chapter. I am also sorry to anyone who ends up with any head injuries as a result of said nonsense, or any injuries and/or infections to their throats caused by screaming themselves raw.
> 
> Also, if you have any moments in here when you just want to scream, “Oh my god, KEITH YOU FUCKING IDIOT” or something similar?
> 
> ……Yeah, no, I am right there with you. I had to get up and walk away a few times while writing this chapter, largely thanks to Keith and how much I increasingly felt like yelling at him. So, please, by all means: you have my absolute and unconditional authorial blessing to yell, “Keith, you fucking idiot” or whatever else you want at him (or at Shiro, Lance, Lotor, or Shay, if you’d rather yell at any of them…… Or, hey, yell at all of the above, if you like. I support your right to yell at fictional characters).
> 
> And if you don’t want to yell at Keith, then that’s okay, too. I’m not the boss of you and you don’t have to yell at Keith just because I did. ♡ (If you don’t want to yell at Shiro, then…… eh, next chapter, you might, but I don’t know you or your life, so I could very well be wrong.)
> 
> You are also cordially invited, if you like, to picture Lotor preening his way through a rendition of, “Be Prepared” from _The Lion King_ with Ezor and Zethrid — but that’s just a random headcanon thing that occurred to me while I’ve been trying to figure out his characterization for this AU, so it’s more of an, “I just think it’s neat” thing than an actually important thing.

_[6:47 AM]: Hey, what do people usually wear to rock shows?_  
**Read** 8:13 AM

_[8:16 AM]: Oh my god, do you ever sleep?_  
**Read** 8:17 AM

_[8:17 AM]: Shay, I’m serious._  
_[8:18 AM]: Please don’t say, “Nice to meet you, Serious. I thought you were Keith.”_  
**Read** 8:21 AM

_[8:23 AM]: If you’re going to wake a girl up this early, you could at least let me have my bad jokes._  
_[8:25 AM]: But really, there isn’t a dress code for most rock shows?_  
_[8:26 AM]: Why do you ask?_  
**Read** 8:26 AM

_[8:35 AM]: Because I’m going to one tonight and it’s important to me?_  
_[8:41 AM]: Because the first time I tried to go to a bar with somebody, the bouncer didn’t knock my fake ID, but he wouldn’t let me in because he didn’t like my outfit?_  
_[8:47 AM]: Because I don’t know if I have to borrow nicer clothes from your girlfriend or not._  
_[8:48 AM]: Also because it’s important to me, okay?_  
_[8:59 AM]: shay, please?_  
**Read** 9:00 AM

_[9:01 AM]: Calm down, I was just eating Allura out real quick_  
_[9:02 AM]: No I wasn’t, she’s not even up yet_  
**Read** 9:02 AM

_[9:03 AM]: Shay, please? Come on???_  
**Read** 9:03 AM

_[9:03 AM]: I did need coffee, though_  
_[9:04 AM]: Sorry! It was just a joke_  
_[9:06 AM]: Anyway, I mean it. There’s not a dress code for rock shows. Most people just wear whatever they want? Some folks might get dolled up special, but nobody’s going to look at you funny if you don’t._  
_[9:09 AM]: There’s no such thing as a black-tie rock show_  
_[9:10 AM]: Or anyway, I’ve never heard of one_  
**Read** 9:10 AM

_[9:12 AM]: Do you and Allura have plans today?_  
**Read** 9:13 AM

_[9:15 AM]: Not really. Working on papers, mostly_  
**Read** 9:15 AM

_[9:23 AM]: Can you have her call me when she gets up? Please?_  
**Read** 9:24 AM

_[9:24 AM]: Sure, if you tell me what this is about_  
**Read** 9:25 AM

_[9:32 AM]: I got invited to a rock show tonight and don’t want to look like I just rolled out of a gutter_  
**Read** 9:32 AM

_[9:34 AM]: If you’re trying to pick somebody up tonight, you could probably get away with that_  
_[9:36 AM]: A lot of the punks I know would think you’re cuter after rolling out of a gutter_  
**Read** 9:37 AM

_[9:38 AM]: Why would I want to pick anyone up? I already got invited by somebody._  
**Read** 9:39 AM

_[9:40 AM]: somebody you’re trying to impress?_  
**Read** 9:40 AM

_[9:41 AM]: No_  
_[9:41 AM]: yes_  
_[9:42 AM]: Mostly no?_  
_[9:42 AM]: but also Kind of yes?_  
_[9:43 AM]: definitely not, I don’t NEED to impress him_  
_[9:44 AM]: maybe?_  
_[9:48 AM]: I don’t know, okay_  
**Read** 9:49 AM

_[9:53 AM]: Don’t worry, I’ll have her call you_  
**Read** 9:54 AM

_[9:55 AM]: thanks shay_  
_[9:57 AM]: And let her know that, if I don’t pick up, I took a nap and I’ll call her back_  
_[9:58 AM]: Or I’m in the shower_  
_[9:58 AM]: But I will call her back_  
_[10:00 AM]: And thank you_  
**Read** 10:01 AM

*** * ***

Keith doesn’t end up borrowing Allura’s clothes for the show, for all he needs reassurance that wearing his own will _not_ end terribly. He only has three Nice Shirts, two pairs of Nice Slacks, and one Nice Blazer (which he still bought secondhand). They’re hanging up in Keith’s tiny closet so they can’t get too wrinkled, and none of them would fit in at a rock show. Everything else he has may not be in disrepair (some pieces kind of are, though), but aside from his winter coats, none of it can pass for _decent_ , either. Wearing that stuff for class is one thing — after all, Keith has shared courses with underclassmen who showed up in pajamas and assumed he’s working on a PhD because he didn’t — but dressing like that for a show is quite another.

Following Allura’s advice, Keith settles on his tight black jeans, a black t-shirt, and his trusty, cropped red jacket, which is in better condition than it should be. He has to borrow Nyma’s full-length mirror so he can send a decent selfie for his Princess’s approval, but at least she’s around, lounging in a sports bra and a pair of Rolo’s boxers, and she doesn’t ask Keith what he’s doing or why. She _does_ ask if he wants to buy some weed brownies, but as far as Nyma Questions go, it barely registers. At least she’s not needling him about his sex life while name-dropping Proust and Heraclitus without an explanation. Shrugging her off with polite refusal is a matter of principle. Girl’s gotta eat and pay her share of her and Rolo’s rent. Unless they wrap him up in anything, how she gets that money is none of Keith’s damn business.

But even once that’s handled and he’s showered, Keith still has two-and-a-half hours before he needs to leave. So, he hunches over his desk with a notebook and tries to get out some work for Ryner’s essay. Instead, he ends up with several pages full of half-baked, scratched-out paragraphs and his hands itching from the desire to rip the paper out and crumple it up. That might clear his head more than scribbling over his own words when they disappoint him. With 650 prompts, Keith should be able to find _something_ he can write about for this assignment, except that all of the prompts are bullshit. Some of them, Keith could answer in 50 words or less, never mind, “4,000 to 7,500 (give or take), with 5,000 to 6,000 being the ideal range.”

For one of the more respectable ones — _“Do you recognize yourself in descriptions of, ‘Millennials’ or, ‘Generation Z’?”_ — Keith tries writing something more about Shay’s protest, the one he wrote about before. He could dismantle the entire question with that story. Show how the premise is ridiculous because there isn’t any more or less variance in political opinions or activity in Keith’s generation than in any of their predecessors. Different people are different, regardless of their birth years; that’s the entire point of human variance. All he’d need to do is shift the focus slightly, delve some more into the opposition that Shay got from the Yiannopolous supporters and conservative student groups on campus.

For the necessary contrast, Keith could drag in some of the stories that he heard from Bryce’s grandfather, when he was still with them. That might make this garbage personal enough for Ryner: _“My asshole foster brother’s equally douchey grandpa used to spend Sunday dinners telling us shit like, ‘If God wanted the races to be equal, then He wouldn’t have made whites superior.’ He also accused me of being a Communist before I even knew what that meant, because he thought that I’m Chinese. Telling him that my real parents were both at least partially Korean only made him worse. But anyway, it doesn’t really matter. He got bitten by a Texas coral snake because he mistook it for a different, nonvenomous species and thought that he’d look cool if he went up and smacked it with a stick. The worst part was sitting through his funeral and trying to pretend like I wasn’t kinda glad that the old bastard had finally kicked it.”_

—No, fuck. That’s probably a good way to end up in Coran’s office after refusing to go see the alleged counselors at health services. How stupid — as though Keith’s a genuine danger to himself and others because, at age thirteen, he wasn’t sorry about the death of a racist jackass who’d made him miserable and told Bryce he was in the right for locking Keith in the cupboard under the stairs.

He starts in on, _“Can you be good without God?”_ , but there’s no excuse for whining all over his essay like, _“I don’t get why anybody acts like God and goodness go together, because they don’t. Sure, I’ve met religious people who were probably decent, and I’ve met atheists who treated everyone around them like dirt. But my super-religious Baptist foster parents denied us dinner if we quote-unquote, ‘spoke out of turn,’ and when I aged out of the system? One ride that I bummed up to Chicago came from an 18-wheel-driver who had a rosary and a picture of his wife and kids hanging off his rearview mirror. He recited the Bible verses after telling me to suck his cock while he was driving. He blew his load in the middle of the Beatitudes: ‘Blessed are the pure of heart, for they will see…’ — I don’t know about God, but whatever they see, it’s gotta be better than that guy’s mutilated-looking O-face. And he had five kids in that picture, like fuck, I kinda feel sorry for his wife.”_

For, _“When should you feel guilty about killing zombies?”_ , Keith considers how much Rob and Bryce both loved violent video games, but instead catches himself scrawling, _“Never, Ryner, because ‘zombies’ are fucking fictional. If somebody can’t tell the difference between reality and a bunch of pixels on a screen, which are arranged to represent a George A. Romero-influenced depiction of an appropriated folkloric creature that doesn’t actually exist in the world as we know it? That’s something they should see a doctor about, not everybody else’s fucking problem. But if it matters, my foster brothers never let me play their video games, so what do I know?_

_“There, have those stinking personal details. That’s what you wanted me to give you, isn’t it? Is that enough of, ‘me’ in an assignment for you? Can I write something that actually fucking **matters** now? Or do I have to cry on you about how my Dad is probably dead but if he weren’t and he came back tomorrow, I wouldn’t even be mad at him for disappearing and sticking me with an Aunt who died, which led me to some shitty foster homes where no one wanted me, which led me to Chicago? Do I have to tell you that my forgiveness wouldn’t be because I’m proud of what I’ve done or who I am, which I wouldn’t have gotten to if he hadn’t left me, but even if he’d be ashamed of me, I’d forgive him for everything because I just want him and my Mom back? Is that the sort of, ‘personal detail’ I have to give you if I don’t want to fail this fucking class?_

_“Because with all due respect? Fuck that, Ryner. I’m not doing it and I am definitely not giving those jack-offs in our class the chance to judge me for my life. What I’ve been through is not for their consumption, or yours. It’s **my** business, **my own** burden, and it’s only ever going to be mine **alone**. Go find your own fucking Precious, Gollum, and stop trying to get off on mine.”_

Groaning, Keith lobs his pen at the window. It bounces off and lands on his notebook while he’s digging at his temples like there might be diamonds buried underneath. He glares at his alarm clock, then pulls on his boots — Shay’s suggestion, because as she put it, if Keith manages to find his way into a mosh-pit, he won’t want to be wearing sneakers.

It’s still a bit early for him to leave, but the timing’s close enough, and Keith has got to get away from his notebook. As satisfying as telling Ryner off might feel in the short-term, today’s writing all suggests that he probably can’t do it without revealing shit that has no business getting brought up again. The past is past, which means it’s gone and no one needs to care about it — _Until it comes charging back into your life with long hair, a new scar, and a Pansy Division crop-top_ , Keith muses, then shakes his head, failing to dismiss the thought.

He yanks on his jacket and grumbles as he locks his door. Hitting the sidewalk sets his nerves on edge, like maybe he shouldn’t go tonight after all, and it dogs him all the way to the bus stop, no matter how many deep breaths he takes or how close the mixed up stenches from the gutters, bodegas, and the shawarma place nearly drown Keith’s thoughts out for him.

Maybe this is a mistake. Maybe Shiro only invited him to be polite, only said he wanted to see Keith because he thought it was socially required of him, and doesn’t really want him there at all. Maybe Keith should skip the show, put the extra money in his checking account, delete Shiro’s and Hunk’s numbers, and wash his hands of this entirely. He’s fine like this — okay, maybe not that fine, according to most people’s standards, but he gets by. He manages with what he has or what he can find.

The best he can hope for isn’t much, but it’s better than nothing, which was all Keith had left for him in Chicago by the time his stay there ended. And it’s not like Keith is still fucked up about Chicago just because he’s a prickly, antisocial mess; he was like this long before that car-wreck happened, or the stabbing, or having to pass an extra test on the Constitution of the State of Illinois to get his GED, or any of it.

As he plods onto the Blue Line bus and fumbles his pass through the scanner, Keith tries to ignore the thoughts telling him that he might be wrong. As the engine roars, he tries to tune out anything that even vaguely feels like a hope. As signs and buildings whiz past the window, he tries to smother the almost-bright feeling that’s kindling in the pit of his chest, tries to choke it out of him before it can get any ideas and turn into a wish or something _real_. Wishes are dangerous; they only lead to people being crushed. Hope is a knife that always hits its mark. There’s no way to shield yourself from either once you screw up and let them into your life, so unless you want to end up crying, you have to keep them out.

Balling his hand up in his jeans, Keith keeps his breaths even, deep, and slow, and he tells himself that nothing’s going to happen.

*** * ***

Moonstruck Tavern isn’t quite a dive bar, but it’s small and out-of-the-way. Moreover, it’s uptown, nearish to campus but in a neighborhood that Keith doesn’t know very well, too far from anywhere he frequents for him to venture toward without a reason. Even with people lining up outside to pay the evening’s cover charge or have a last cigarette before heading in, he walks right past the entrance four times before he makes it out.

Once he’s inside, Keith weaves through the other patrons and makes a beeline for the bar. He orders a Jack-and-Coke and claims a stool as _**His** Spot_ , at least for the night. Glancing around at the malingerers and the lit-up, empty stage, he sees no one that he recognizes. Not that finding anybody would make a difference, when Keith’s determined to let nothing come of this misadventure. A familiar face might give him something to latch onto, even if it’s a face he’d like to punch, but he’ll be fine. He can get by on his own, like he always has.

Yet, as he takes his first drink, his nerves refuse to settle down. That could be problematic for him. If he isn’t calm, he’ll stick out. If he sticks out, he’ll draw attention to himself. If he draws attention to himself, Keith might not end up shoved in a locker or a garbage can, because thankfully, this isn’t high school, but things could still refuse to go his way. The bar’s stench around him helps, a little. Sweat and human bodies piling in around each other, Keith could take or leave, but it’s illegal to smoke in bars, so Keith can enjoy the cigarette smell lingering around the other patrons without hacking up a lung, thanks to the physical smoke.

At least he brought distractions, and at least the show hasn’t started yet. It’s hardly _quiet_ in here, but as yet, the noise is simply the combined, buzzing weight of several separate unremarkable conversations going on at once. Slipping a hand into his jacket’s inside pocket, Keith takes out the black Moleskine that was part of last year’s birthday present from Allura. He’s hardly even used it, saving its pages for special notes or desperate need as much as he can, because these things are expensive. Maybe it’s not some custom-made number that Allura had special-ordered from Venice, but it still cost more than Keith’s horde of three-or-five-subject, spiral-bound and college-ruled, no-brand scratch-pads from the Walmart over in Greenpoint. You have to treat a journal like this with respect.

Which Keith would do tonight, if he could find anything worth writing down. After printing the date in the upper righthand corner, Keith taps the butt of his pen against the empty page. He loses track of time, alternately looking around the bar for nothing in particular, and staring at the blank space, wondering why it isn’t full of words. Up on the stage, a pair of weirdos with Buddy Holly glasses, an acoustic guitar, and a Macbook fumble around setting themselves up. The weirdo in the purple-plaid button-up tests a microphone by tapping it — Keith rolls his eyes; even he knows not to do that — and as Purple Weirdo introduces them ( _“Hi, everyone, happy Saturday, I’m Morgan, that’s Blaine, and together, we’re The Moonfish”_ ), Keith asks the bartender for a second drink. If The Moonfish are a preview for how the rest of the night’s gonna go, musically speaking, then Keith really doesn’t want to do this stone cold sober.

Without entirely meaning to, Keith goes back to tapping on his page and falls vaguely into rhythm with The Moonfish’s set. He misses more than a few beats here and there, but by his standards, he’s doing great. By the time they’ve finished playing, he still hasn’t written anything. If he felt like playing Hemingway, he could blame that on how he’s only taken a couple sips from his third Jack-and-Coke, but Keith isn’t planning to chug anything, not even if the drinks _are_ pretty cheap.

As the evening’s second act starts setting up on the stage, Keith checks his phone and finds that he hasn’t missed any calls or texts. He fails to repress a sigh and can’t stop himself from wilting. Not like he has any right to feel put out, or like he actually expected Shiro to show his face when he’s here to perform tonight — _Well, maybe you did a little bit…_ — but it _does_ chafe a little that Shiro hasn’t even texted to ask if he’s coming or not. To be fair, he might feel like that would constitute pushing Keith, and if he’s anything like the Shirogane Takashi who Keith used to know, then he won’t want to be too pushy. But, seriously. Would it kill him to ask even _once_?

The second act is a set of three who Keith can only tell apart because one is bleach blonde, one has black hair, and the third has dyed their mop-top turquoise. Keith nearly chokes on a sip of his drink when they introduce themselves as Plastic Fun Time Sex Riot, then does what he can to tune them out. It’s shockingly easy. Even with that bombastic name and what seems like a pretty decent sound system, Plastic Fun Time Sex Riot is weirdly quiet and so sonically polite that Keith feels bad every time his pen-tapping misses a beat in one of their songs.

He’s still tapping without having written a word when something drops onto his shoulder. Keith tenses, whips around — and can’t hold back a deep _sigh_ when Shiro sheepishly smiles back at him.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you…” He squeezes Keith’s arm, then pulls back his hand and mumbles something about being sorry again, because he knows how Keith can get about being touched, he just got excited and he wasn’t thinking.

“It’s okay,” Keith tells him, and he isn’t entirely lying. He’s not sure how truthful he’s being, either, but if Shiro put his hand back on his shoulder, Keith doesn’t think he’d mind. “How are you doing? You look good.”

“Yeah, well, you would know, right?” Shiro briefly flushes pink, then forces a laugh. “I mean to say, you look good, too. Still love that jacket. Longer hair totally works for you, too.”

“Thanks. I call this cut the, ‘My faculty advisor has a waist-length braid, so no one’s hassled me lately about not wasting money on a haircut’ look.” Keith shrugs and sips his drink, idly clinking his ice cubes in the glass. He tries to smile back, since Shiro’s putting in the effort. “At least you look like you grew your hair out on purpose?”

“It actually wasn’t, not at first? But then I kinda liked it, so I let it keep growing… The maintenance has all been deliberate, though?”

“What, because there’s such a thing as unintentional maintenance? Like, ‘Oh, I’m terribly sorry, sir, I must’ve slipped, fell, and fixed your plumbing’? Or, y’know, trimmed your split ends in this case, I guess?”

Shiro gives him a grin and chuckles, but Keith hates this. He’s improvising pretty well by his standards, yes, but falling back on tedious, superficial small talk scripts that he’s had drilled into him over the years. They’re bad enough on their own, but going through these motions with Shiro is taking a nail-file to Keith’s nerves. Another sip of his drink doesn’t shake off the nagging feeling like he might end up puking tonight, if he isn’t careful. Which is completely unfair and kinda bullshit, really — but even though his head keeps telling him that it’s been almost five years and Shiro might as well be a stranger, Keith’s heart screams at him that all of this small talk is just plain _wrong_.

Still, he isn’t lying about Shiro looking good. Tonight’s black t-shirt has proper sleeves and the cover art from Depeche Mode’s _Songs of Faith and Devotion_ album splayed across the chest. It fits Shiro well but loosely, hinting at the physique hiding underneath but teasing you with it, not shoving it in your face. Back in Chicago, that could’ve meant a host of different things, but here and now, Keith’s not sure what to make of it. He arches an eyebrow at the tacky belt-buckle — on a simple, silver oval, black block letters read, _“THE MAN”_ and, _“THE LEGEND,”_ with arrows pointing up and down, respectively — but can’t help a bit of a smile when he notices that Shiro’s jeans, while well-worn with one missing knee, are not practically falling off his ass.

Tightening his grip on his drink, Keith angles back toward the bar and motions for Shiro to take the stool next to him if he wants. Surprisingly enough, he does, and keeps smiling, for all it’s no less fragile-looking. Keith tries not to curl in on himself too much, but fuck, having the full force of Shiro’s smile turned on him again makes his breath hitch in his throat. Aside from the white forelock, Shiro has his hair pulled back in a high ponytail that helps show off his face. It makes his scar more noticeable, but lets Keith better see his smile and his eyes as well, dark gray and beautiful and glittering like he might actually be happy to see Keith (and who knows, maybe he believes he is). Still so irritatingly pretty, Shiro’s cheekbones are defined but not overly so. Up by the dip of his neck, Shiro’s collarbones are visible and defined, but don’t have their old look like they could’ve collected water in the shower.

_Dammit_ — Keith’s cheeks start prickling and he throws back the rest of his drink in one go. Why is he slipping back into his old checklist of Shiro’s body like he has any right to do that? As far as he knows, he didn’t even have that right back in Chicago; Shiro simply didn’t complain when he caught Keith staring for too long, said something like, _“Enjoying the view?”_ or, _“Y’know, the merchandise likes being pawed at more than window-shopped,”_ only for Keith to blurt out that Shiro had lost weight again. Sure, he made up excuses for it (and sometimes, he made them work), but he didn’t complain or ask Keith to stop.

Now, Keith tries to say something first, but Shiro beats him to it: “Still, I just… God, I can’t believe you came?” he says, half-breathlessly. “I didn’t expect — not that I’m not happy you’re here, because I _am_ , I’m _so_ happy that you’re here, but… I know this kind of place isn’t really your scene? Or anyway, it didn’t used to be?”

His little chuckle is tightly-wound but gentle, and frustratingly hard to get a fix on. It sounds sorta like his drunk laugh and his old _currently higher than Everest on Oxycontin_ laugh, so Keith leans toward him and makes himself meet Shiro’s eyes, no matter how much he ends up blushing. The shitty lighting makes it hard to tell, but nothing seems off about Shiro’s eyes. Plus, the smile he fixes on Keith is wobbly, but so clear and painfully earnest in how it tugs at the corners of his face. Absolutely not the mess that his face used to turn into when he was wasted, blurring any discernible lines between feelings, stacking expression on top of expression on top of off-kilter, knotted up expression like a multiple-exposure photograph.

Keith nods as he settles back onto his stool without shifting too far out of Shiro’s direction. With a shrug, he says, “Yeah, no, I haven’t found any great love for bars or nightclubs recently.” _Yeah, dream on, I haven’t changed **that** much. You could probably still see right through me, if you wanted. But you don’t, and whatever, I don’t blame you._

“And I dunno,” he goes on. “You’re sharing a bill with some pretty… interesting acts?” _They suck more than either of us in a room full of cock. Why didn’t you tell me you were playing last?_

Scratching at the back of his neck, Keith tries to make himself stop staring at the bar like there’s a picture hidden in the polished wood. “And I don’t know, like I was telling this girl — this friend, I mean? She’s my friend, like? I made an actual friend all by myself and everything, can you believe that?”

_See? I can get by on my own. I don’t need you to come save me or make me into your little pity-project charity case again, so don’t even try._

“Her name’s Allura, and she’s really great? She’s smart, funny — but sometimes she doesn’t mean to be — she can be kinda pushy and kind of a princess, but she’s nice and seriously, she can be so smart, it’s kinda scary? We went out for a while, but now she’s with this other girl, Shay, but we’re still friends, so?”

While Keith’s catching his breath (and telling himself to _stop babbling about Allura, what the Hell is he trying to prove_ ), Shiro says, “She sounds great. I’d love to meet her, sometime. I mean, if you want to let me?”

“I don’t know, I’d have to ask her about it,” he says. Not like he can’t guess how Allura would react to such an offer — she’d probably try to make said meeting happen right that very second — but they can deal with that later, if ever. “But like I was telling her, your new stuff with the band isn’t exactly Dolly Parton, or anything I’d normally listen to?”

_It’s not the music that **you** used to love making either, but I guess that **Lance** doesn’t appreciate soul-baring acoustic numbers as much as he likes making you scream about things. Does he even **know** that you can actually sing? Does he even **care**? Does he kiss you like you deserve when Hunk lets him mack around with other guys, or does that jumped-up little shit make everything all about himself? Do you even—_

Swallowing thickly, Keith drags his gaze back up as he tells Shiro, “But then, Allura had a point about how I wasn’t being fair on you guys, like? She had a point about how your music isn’t gonna sound like Dolly Parton, too, but her real point was how maybe I was being too harsh because you guys were keeping me awake—”

“God, I’m so, _so_ sorry about that. We’re trying to work out a better rehearsal schedule, and that Morvok guy told us the garage had better insulation for the noise—”

“Morvok’s always full of shit, but you couldn’t have known that.” _Guess that answers whether or not you’re still too trusting for your own damn good._ “But yeah? Like I said, Allura had a good point, and I wouldn’t say I’m _actively_ working on being less judgmental or a better person or anything? But I felt bad for that and thought, y’know? Maybe I should give you guys and your music another chance?”

_And maybe I wanted to see you, too, but I’d like to see you prove it._

Keith intends to force a smile, because that would be polite, and maybe there are some things Shiro would do that aren’t actually good ideas, but not being an asshole isn’t one of them. But then, he really takes in Shiro’s face, and how he’s still fucking smiling like he really can’t believe that this is happening for real, and how soft his eyes are getting — _Shit, what did I do, what did I break, why do you look like any second, you could just start crying?_ — and to Keith’s surprise, even with his nerves, the smile twists his lips up without waiting for him to give the go-ahead. None of this should be happening, right now. Shiro shouldn’t be sitting next to Keith at all, much less resting his cheek in his hand with all of his attention focused right on Keith. He absolutely should not be _fucking smiling like that_ at Keith, as though there’s any universe in which Keith is actually _important_ , as though Shiro honestly believes that world might exist or even that they might be in it, now…

Inhaling sharply, Keith turns to glance down the bar. He ends up flagging down the bartender, because she spots him looking her way when really, he only needed a break from that feeling that Shiro causes. But since she’s here and making excuses would be more trouble than it’s worth, Keith won’t object to another Jack-and-Coke.

“And how about a Diet-and-Cuervo with a lime, too?” He turns back to Shiro. “That’s still your first-choice poison, right?”

For the first time, Shiro’s face falters. He plasters on a grin as he tells her, “I’ll just have the Diet Coke and lime-wedge, please, Ricki? Hold the Cuervo, thanks? And can you put his drinks on the band’s tab? He’s with us.”

As soon as she’s gone, Shiro drops the act. He slumps over the bar, tensed up like an agitated cat, propping himself up on his elbows and sighing from somewhere deep inside his chest. Asking what the Hell that was makes him close his eyes and hum softly, and he doesn’t seem to breathe any easier until Keith’s hand moves to rest on his shoulder. This might be about the last thing Keith should be doing, gently squeezing Shiro like they still really know each other and this is still a thing they do — as though Keith has any right to touch him — but to be fair, Shiro _did_ grab Keith’s arm a few minutes ago. Turnabout being fair play and all means Keith should get one (1) free shoulder-touch, himself.

More importantly, Shiro leans toward the contact and lets his lips quirk up again, so he probably doesn’t mind too terribly. Which is nice, except that his expression isn’t reassuring in the slightest. Keith can’t pinpoint what, exactly, feels off about it? But there’s something too rueful and too tired for him to trust his judgment that Shiro doesn’t mind the contact. His mouth’s not even curved into a proper smile, though it looks like it wants to be when it grows up.

“Actually, I would _love_ to have a Diet Coke-and-Cuervo, but…” Shiro says this to the bar, barely above a whisper and with the air of someone confessing in the hope of absolution.

His eyes aren’t dewy when he looks up at Keith, but they look closer to tearing up than ever. For a moment, he fishes around in his hip pocket, then hands over something that looks like a hot pink poker chip made out of metal. Keith furrows his brow at the words carved into one side and painted over with silver: _“God grant me the serenity to accept things I cannot change, courage to change things I can, and wisdom to know the difference.”_

He nearly asks if Shiro’s given up working at used bookstores in favor of weirdly religious gambling halls, but chokes it down when he turns the coin over. The other side has, _“To thine own self be true”_ from _Hamlet_ written along the edges, and smack-dab in the middle is an outline of a triangle with another circle drawn inside it. In the center of that circle is a silver Roman numeral I. Raising the token into some better light lets Keith see the words, _“unity,” “service,”_ and, _“recovery”_ written in smaller letters along each other the triangle’s sides. That clue makes some things click into place and some ideas come to mind, but Keith’s mind snags hard on the obvious question of what Shiro’s even doing with this, if it actually is what Keith thinks.

“I just got it yesterday,” Shiro says as though this explains everything. “Only took me about four years to get my act together and quit slipping up for long enough, but… I don’t know, it all feels kinda surreal, y’know?”

“Wait, this is a _sobriety_ chip?” Keith splutters, then silently curses his brain-to-mouth filter for failing him. Even if Shiro’s mouth doesn’t exactly quiver, he slouches slightly as he nods, and guilt kicks Keith in the stomach.

“I’ve been carrying it everywhere because I’m still not sure it’s real?” Shiro tries to laugh, but it’s breathy and obviously fake. “I don’t think Aunt Satomi can believe it, either? Like, she’s proud, but she called after my meeting last night, and Ryou kind of chewed her out for _something_ , then he wouldn’t say what or why, so… If you’re shocked, then you’re in pretty good company, is what I’m saying?”

“Wait, no, I didn’t mean it like…” Keith tries to gather his thoughts, but they’re not having it. His brain’s got the heat turned up all the way, and everything comes boiling out his fucking mouth: “I didn’t expect it, but I didn’t mean I was — And you just pulled it out, like? You had to tell her that about your drink, when I shouldn’t have even — I thought, but like, I didn’t, clearly I didn’t think about anything, that’s the whole — I mean, I just _assumed_ without any, like — I didn’t even just… Oh my _fuck_ — I’m sorry? Should I even be — like, shit, I just ordered that Jack-and-Coke, are you gonna be okay if I’m—”

“ _Keith_. Calm down. _Breathe_. It’s okay.” Shiro moves his hand like he’s going to squeeze Keith’s shoulder again, but instead, curls his fingers around Keith’s fist.

Keith curses the flush that swamps onto his face, and despite himself, he hopes to whatever superhuman entity might give a shit that his cheeks aren’t half as pink as they feel. He fails to smother the fluttering feeling in his chest. Giving in to impulse, he shuffles nearer to the edge of his seat and leans in closer to Shiro, but that only makes him feel worse, like his heart is going hummingbird-fast and could stop dead at any moment, like he might need to vomit half-digested peanut curry. They’re not close enough to completely lose the bar’s cocktail of smells, but as he tries (and fails) to steady himself, Keith catches a prickly, distantly familiar scent around Shiro’s mouth and can’t keep himself from slouching.

_Holy kitten-eating zombie Jesus, you still wear that godawful so-called “Dr. Pepper”-flavored lip-chap? Fucking **why** , Shiro? How can you even **stand** it? God, get it together, Keith. In and out, it’s not that fucking hard. You can outshine actual graduate students in graduate-level courses while down with strep throat; you can pull your head out of your ass for long enough to stop acting like such a mess over Shiro’s lip-chap. It’s not even anything important. Stop looking at his mouth, you idiot. Yes, it’s beautiful but that isn’t helping. What even is fucking **wrong** with you, Kogane? He just told you he’s a year sober, and you’re digging your nails into your palm over his fucking **lip-chap** …_

Shiro squeezes Keith’s hand again and says his name just firmly enough to drag Keith’s attention kicking and screaming out of his own head. He forces himself to look at the spot between Shiro’s eyebrows while Shiro’s talking. That’s Shiro’s old trick to make it look like Keith’s making eye-contact. Maybe it’ll be enough to compensate for how he hears Shiro’s voice but can’t quite make sense of the words. It takes him a moment to notice how Shiro’s breathing, drawing in deep through the nose and holding it for a couple seconds. It takes Keith another moment to spot Shiro’s free hand moving up and down in front of him, following the rise and fall of his chest. But — okay. Okay, fine. Keith nods and lets himself slump toward the bar. He follows Shiro’s lead until their breaths are synchronized.

After enough sets that Keith stops counting them, Shiro lets up and asks if Keith feels any better. He does, but he wishes that he didn’t. So far, he’s doing a shitty job of not letting anything unexpected happen tonight, but if the evening’s going to fuck with him like that, at least Keith could’ve gotten to hold that moment with Shiro for a little while longer.

“As I was saying…” Shiro’s cheeks twinge pink as though he’s the one who just derailed everything by turning into a non-verbal mess over fucking _lip-chap_. “It’s fine for you to have your drink, Keith. I don’t mind. I’ve had to relearn how to be in bars so we could play our shows. No, it’s not always easy for me, but it’s _my_ responsibility and I can handle it. I promise.”

“Yeah, well, I promised Allura that I’d be fine coming here on my own, and look how _that_ worked out,” Keith says before he can think to stop himself.

As his brain catches up to his mouth, his ears prickle again and gooseflesh crops up along his arms; he feels the blush spreading down his neck this time. He only looks up from the bar when Shiro starts rubbing his thumb in gentle circles along the side of his fist. Meeting Shiro’s eyes doesn’t last long; Keith shrinks back, and only sits up halfway straight when Shiro holds his hand tighter. Their drinks come, and Keith still hasn’t remembered how to use his stupid mouth. The more Shiro rubs at his hand, the more Keith wishes that he’d stop acting as though _Keith’s_ the one who needs protecting and sensitivity. He should tell Shiro to stop, to focus on himself instead of caring about how Keith feels when Keith isn’t the one who just revealed something huge because somebody who he used to trust fucked up and tried to order a drink that he can’t have or who knows what will happen.

That’s what a _good_ person would do, most likely, and _not_ telling Shiro to take care of himself first seems like one of those things that Allura will probably chastise him for, and he’ll deserve it when she does. But for right now, Keith’s hand feels like it’s right where it belongs, with Shiro’s wrapped around it. Whatever, Keith never claimed to be a good person. The crowd up by the stage gives a modest applause, and finally, Keith looks back up.

“Okay, what I said… That sounded pretty bad? And I’m sorry?” Keith says. He nods when Shiro says that he doesn’t need to apologize, but lets it go right out the other ear. “I just… When I texted you the other day? Allura was there, and encouraging it — we were getting dinner, and she told me to come tonight, but today? She asked if I wanted her to come with as like… an emotional guardian?”

That might not be the right term for what Keith wants to say, but Shiro frowns like he’s worried, and looking at him doesn’t make Keith’s head clear any faster, and before he’s even halfway ready, Shiro cuts in with, “What were you so anxious about? I didn’t have plans, or expect anything from you — I didn’t even think you’d _come_ —”

Keith knows, and he scoots closer to Shiro, as if practically falling off his stool will prove anything. “But it wasn’t _you_ that I was worried about, or not you exclusively — it was kind of everything, but I also didn’t even feel like I was that anxious, I just…” He sighs. “This is so stupid, but… It’s just that it’s been a while, right? And I didn’t _expect_ you ever again, but then Thursday morning, there you were, like you showed up out of _nowhere_ , and I had no idea what was going on, like I’d woken up in fucking Bizarro World or something…”

He probably could’ve kept going, but Shiro squeezes his hand like it’s okay if he doesn’t want to. “You were disoriented,” he says, finding the words for what Keith’s feeling better and faster than Keith himself. _Just like he always used to do._ “Sudden change fell in your lap, and there’s so much that’s tied up in it—”

“But it’s not like a _bad_ change? Or I thought it was, but then we were texting, and now I’m thinking like maybe it doesn’t _have_ to be, but I don’t, I just…” Dammit, Keith is _not_ going to cry. He isn’t. He drops his free hand and knots his fingers up in his jeans. “I feel… _so_ confused, Shiro, and I’m _so_ sorry, I…”

“You don’t have to apologize for having feelings.” Shiro says it like he means it, and in all likelihood, he does. But he finally lets go of Keith’s hand, squeezing all the life he can out of his lime wedge before diving headlong into the Diet Coke. He comes back up with a sigh, and stews in silence while the crowd applauds again.

“I really didn’t think this through,” Shiro croaks into his glass.

“Me neither. So, you’re in good company? For whatever that’s worth?”

Fuck caution. Keith squeezes Shiro’s shoulder again, and when Shiro relaxes, Keith takes it as an invitation to just leave his hand there. He eases up himself when Shiro puts his hand over top of Keith’s again. For a long moment, they sit there quietly, but right as Keith’s trying to spit out something more—

“Shirito, come on! We’re on soon. For the love of cheese, _bonito_ , you better not be—”

Keith jerks his hand back from Shiro’s shoulder. Both of them straighten up and swivel around. And with his hands on his hips, Lance stands there, glaring at Keith like he just insulted Lance’s mother. In a navy blue crop-top with screenprinted art of Superman and Batman playing tonsil-hockey, Lance looks skinnier and spindlier than before. It almost makes Keith feel like his own body has some substance to it, and in the face of Lance’s attempt at cowing him, all he does is shrug. Lance softens only slightly as he glances at Shiro, and the offer, _“It’s just a Diet Coke, smell my breath if you want to check it,”_ makes Lance shake his head.

“I _know_ it’s just a Diet Coke, okay? I _trust_ you,” he says. “What I was gonna _say_ was, ‘You better not be trying to get out of helping us set things up.’”

Nodding, Shiro swallows thickly. “Thanks for reminding me, I’ll just be…” He polishes off his drink, then turns to Keith. “ _Please_ stay through the end of our set, okay? Or text me if you decide to leave? I want to talk about this, but the show…”

Keith nods back and promises to stay. He doesn’t believe Shiro’s grin before he makes his exit, but Shiro doesn’t seem to expect that from him, either. With him gone, Keith turns back to his own drink and his notebook. Something pokes him in the spine. He takes a deep breath and holds it for a count of ten. The poking keeps going, coming harder and faster. Keith ignores it until Lance swoops in at his left-hand side.

“Man, I don’t know what the frak you think you’re doing—”

“Neither do me and Shiro,” Keith grumbles, pointedly looking at the vintage painting over the back of the bar, of a cat playing the violin on the moon. “Join the club, why don’t you. We’ll be getting badges soon, at this rate.”

“I don’t _want_ your badges, or your fucking cookies, or whatever the Hell else you have, okay!”

“So, do us both a favor and leave me alone.” Glancing sidelong at Lance, he adds, “Besides, don’t you need to go help or something?”

“Yeah, and I’m gonna, just as soon as I speak my piece.” He huffs as though he’s preparing to give a speech of actual importance, and folds his arms over his chest. “Look, you’ve been out of his life for a while, so you don’t know what he’s been through—”

“And he doesn’t know what I’ve been through, either. That _is_ how ignorance tends to work.”

“—but whatever the shit you think this is? You need to _stop_.”

“I _don’t_ know what this is. Neither does Shiro. Pretty sure we _just_ covered that—”

“He doesn’t need this bullshit in his life right now, and he _especially_ does not need _**you**_ —”

“Yeah, he invited me because he _wanted_ me here.” Keith still doesn’t quite believe that. But he’ll use anything that he can to make Lance either get angry or go away. “Need and want can overlap, but they’re different feelings, so—”

“What part of, _‘You need to stop’_ means that I asked you for excuses?” Lance snaps, cocking a hip and batting at Keith’s shoulder.

Keith arches an eyebrow at him. “Dude. I’ve met kittens who hit me worse than that. Who are you trying to impress?”

“I don’t need to impress _anybody_ , Mullet!” If he were a _Looney Toons_ character, Lance would be turning red and have steam fuming out of both ears right now. He hugs himself tighter as he tells Keith, “All I need is for you to take your _stupid_ hair, go climb in your DeLorean, then fuck off back to 1985 and _leave. Shiro. alone_. Preferably for the next foreseeable _**always**_ , capisce?”

Keith had a retort ready, assuming that Lance would say something stupid. Instead, he furrows his brow and blinks. “I… What the Hell is a DeLorean?” When all Lance does is boggle at Keith like he _must_ be joking, Keith shakes his head. “What, is it like a kinky sex toy, or something?”

“No, man — you know, Doc Brown and Marty McFly?” He groans at Keith wondering if those are friends of his. “No, come on, just… _Back to the Future_?”

“Is that a band?” Keith takes a drink. “They’ve got a way cooler-sounding name than yours.”

Lance splutters incoherently, and when he recovers enough for words, he tells Keith, “‘When this baby hits 88 miles per hour, you’re gonna see some serious shit’?” as though it means literally anything.

Keith yawns and doesn’t bother trying to hide it. “88 MPH isn’t _that_ impressive. This one time, back in Chicago? One of Shiro’s old friends from Columbia College rolled and crashed his Daddy’s stupid Porsche while we were going over 95, and all three of us were fine. The car wasn’t, but that was his problem, not mine.”

More spluttering, then Lance offers him, “‘Where we’re going, we don’t _need_ roads’?!”

With a shrug, Keith says, “Well, technically, you _don’t_ need roads to drive on? Some cars are worse than others, but I’m from Texas. I grew up with kids who tried to drive their parents’ cars into cattle pastures. In my experience, roads are optional.”

As Lance shouts, “Oh my God, you are the freaking _worst_!” and storms off, Keith feels something like pride’s weirdo second-cousin who doesn’t get asked around to the family cook-outs. He still doesn’t know what a DeLorean is, but at least he gets to drink alone.

*** * ***

Galaxy Garrison’s set isn’t bad. Actually, they’re pretty good, for all Keith would sooner swallow thumbtacks than say so where Lance could hear him do it. Whether it’s the sound setup at the bar or being more directly near the noise, whether it’s the rehearsals paying off or maybe just that Keith is now sufficiently inebriated, the band gets their shit together and sounds loads better than they ever have in the garage.

Worse off, for Keith anyway, is the fact that Lance’s playing in particular stands out. It could be Keith’s old sympathy for the perpetually forgotten bass players coming back to bite him in the ass, but his ears pick up on Lance’s work quite easily, and while it’s not _meticulous_ , Lance plays well and it’s obvious that he plays with love. His vocals aren’t bad either, and he and Shiro complement each other almost perfectly. This means that Keith can pretty much never compliment the band around Lance. Assuming Shiro even wants to keep up contact with him, Keith saying anything positive about how Lance plays would no doubt make that asshole gloat until Jesus gets back from the liquor store — _As though it’s not bad enough that Lance gets to date Hunk **and** make out with Shiro whenever he fucking wants, God can’t he leave any decent guys for the rest of us?_ — and Keith would _never_ live that down.

At least the rest of the band aren’t slouching, either, so Keith has other things to compliment, should the opportunity present itself. Hunk beams at the crowd from behind his drum kit, and goes at his work with such exuberance, you’d never guess he has to practice. The few times that he speaks up, it’s usually in the name of correcting some boast of Lance’s, or a blushing retort of, _“Aww, you guys are, like, the best fans **ever**! We totally love you too”_ when someone yells about how much they love the band. Pidge engages in the between-song banter more than Hunk does, playfully heckling random members of the audience about their hair or their questionable taste in t-shirts while Shiro and Lance adjust their strings. When she plays, it’s with gusto and an eager smirk that seems like it’s actually a private expression between her and her keys, something meant for no one’s eyes, though everyone else has the special privilege of glimpsing it right now.

But the four of them shine brightest in how they come together as a band. For the two songs they played to within an inch of their lives on Thursday, Galaxy Garrison gets all their cues out seamlessly, as far as Keith can tell. Nobody misses any beats, and there’s no squabbling between Lance and Pidge over who messed up what or didn’t. The bass changes tempo seemingly at the exact right time, which makes Pidge switch something on the keyboard settings so that it gets a reverb effect that reminds Keith of both Mark’s old theremin and the Gregorian chant cover of “Losing My Religion” that Shay turned Keith on to back in March. An up-tempo, rockabilly-sounding number about _fuck The Man because he’s homophobic and all of us are super-queer_ melts into a slower, heavier piece about lying Catholic priests and _fuck The Man because he’s high on himself and evil and he doesn’t give a fuck about your soul_.

Well, Keith still can’t say much for their lyrics, but he guesses no one can be good at absolutely everything.

Not that Keith’s biased ( _well, perhaps a little_ ), but in this show, Shiro is unquestionably the star. For all Lance, Hunk, and Pidge sound like fine musicians ( _or anyway, they don’t suck as much as I thought_ ), Shiro clearly has the lion’s share of charisma here. Even though he used to say that being a rock star didn’t sound like what he wanted, he slides naturally into the role of performer with his gleaming black guitar, owning his spot at center-stage and tossing his long hair around every which way. Had Keith not been actively involved in the conversation, he’d never guess that not ten minutes before taking the stage, Shiro had been waist-deep in an emotional disaster area with somebody who, once upon a time, maybe used to almost be a _**something**_ to him.

On stage, Shiro is magnetic, drawing your eyes in but refusing to let them settle on one place. If you focus too much on how his fingers dance across the strings, then you’ll miss the way he writhes to the music and moves his hips. If you pay too much attention to his hips, waiting for him to lean around _just so_ or let his guitar droop _ever-so-slightly_ so you can sneak a peek of how strategically low his jeans are riding, then you’ll miss all the feeling twisting up his face with every word to pass his lips. If you fixate on the anguished expression as he’s singing, then you’ll miss how close the mic stand’s getting to his bulge and the way he’s rubbing his leg against it like he knows exactly what he’s doing and simply doesn’t care. He commands so much attention that, more than once, his band-mates seem to fade away entirely.

Maybe that’s just Keith — he buries his flushed cheeks in his fifth Jack-and-Coke as soon as the thought occurs to him — but on the other hand, that cannot really be the case. There is _no way_. One of the single biggest lessons Keith learned back in Chicago is that, when it comes to Shiro, he is anything but special. Like he told Allura, practically everyone who meets Shiro falls in love with him, no matter what he does. Like Hunk told him at Stop-N-Shop, Shiro might not be romantically entangled with either Lance or Matt (whether or not he’s the same Matt who Shiro met at college but who Keith never got the chance to meet), but they want him enough to have some standing platonic make-out arrangement. Even if they’re the only ones who Shiro does that with, Keith can’t imagine that any guy with an iota of sexual interest in other men would ever turn Shiro down, if he were to offer.

Vaguely, Keith thinks he sees Shiro glance in the direction of the bar while warbling, _“I wish I never told you I’d give you everything I had / ‘cause you took it, now I’m empty and I want my feelings back / You’re unsatisfied and hungry, it’ll never be enough / So maybe I’m an idiot for giving you my love”_ — but it doesn’t seem quite like he’s looking at Keith. Glancing up and down at the other patrons, Keith can’t guess who else Shiro might be singing to. About half of the other barflies are women, so distinctly not his type, and most of the men seem like they’re straight out of some 21st century Edward Hopper knock-off, that’s how nondescript they are.

The only one who stands out is a few spots down from Keith, leaning on the bar as though he owns it. He’s harvest moonlight pale and at least as tall as Shiro, thin but not skinny, and pointy like the old Bowie knife that used to be Keith’s Mom’s. Dressed all in black and a few hits of violet, wearing his trench-coat like a cape, he might well be the most stylish person in here, and the artful tears in his jeans seem like a deliberate attempt to spit in the face of that. On top of that, there’s the long, violently purple hair tied back in a high ponytail. Keith lingers on the guy a while, not sure whether he’s impressed by anything or simply noticing him. His stomach curls when the guy shoots him a wink and a sharp grin that’s three shades too pearly white to be completely natural.

Rolling his eyes, Keith turns back to Jack-and-Coke number six. He’s barely noticing the kick to it by now, so he throws it back in one go, tries to shake the feeling like that guy might’ve wanted to eat him and probably wouldn’t have been too fussy on differentiating between the sexual kind of eating and getting a dinner party invite from Hannibal fucking Lecter. Whatever, it doesn’t matter. Keith isn’t going to entertain him, and the Goth Trash Purple People-Eater totally isn’t Shiro’s type, so assuming that he wasn’t looking in Keith’s direction, maybe he used to see something in one of these still-life paintings trying to turn into real boys that Keith is obviously missing.

Either way, it’s probably not Keith’s business, unless Shiro ever decides to change that, and the unfamiliarity of Galaxy Garrison’s set won’t let Keith forget it. If he didn’t know better, he’d never guess that Shiro’s style used to be soft, one-man acoustic numbers, recorded in his bedroom and posted up on Youtube. Hearing Shiro wail through a grim, oddly personal number like the sonic love-child of Suicidal Tendencies and early Leonard Cohen, Keith would never in a million years think that his voice used to go cold instead when singing his angsty songs. From the content of tonight’s songs, he’d never think that Shiro rarely cussed in his old lyrics, not even the ones that sounded like he’d taken them from journal entries written while he was fighting with his Dad about pursuing music vs. going into space for NASA, or like they’d started as _vent your feelings_ exercises from the Aunt Satomi-mandated therapist who Shiro regularly lied to, or like maybe he’d written them with Maurice in mind.

Sure, Keith assumes that the others chime in on lyrics these days, too. But when looking over any of Keith’s attempted drafts of essays in Chicago, Shiro always used to tell him that he didn’t _need_ to, “swear like a sailor,” that overusing words like _fuck_ and _bullshit_ lessens their impact (and he’d cite the way Keith used to use _dammit_ as an all-purpose interjection), and that Keith could do more for his readers by reining it in and _not_ throwing around cuss words as if he’s twelve years old and getting a rush off of saying dirty words because adults say that they’re taboo. _“I’m totally fucked and you are too / And I can’t say if it gets worse or better / When you fuck me or I fuck you”_ is a pretty far cry from, _“You’re talented, Keith; don’t demean your work by littering it with this pointless shock-value trick.”_

In the middle of another energetic song (which sounds like a very Galaxy Garrison take on Queen’s, “You’re My Best Friend”), something nudges against Keith’s left shoulder. Looking away from the stage and his glass of water ( _can’t get too drunk just because I’m not paying for my drinks tonight, I still have to talk to Shiro later_ ), the first thing he sees is the careless, knife’s edge smirk. Leaning back, he realizes who he’s dealing with, and it’s probably a miracle Keith doesn’t groan as he frowns up at the Goth Trash Purple People-Eater.

“What are you drinking?” he purrs in a posh-sounding accent that Keith can’t quite place, with his voice low enough that Keith’s forced to either lean in again or miss everything this guy is saying. “Someone so beautiful shouldn’t need to pay for his own drinks. Why don’t you let me get another for you.”

Somehow, Keith manages not to roll his eyes, but it’s a close call. “No, thanks,” he says. “I’m actually here with someone else.”

It isn’t technically true, but it’s not technically a lie, either. Shiro might be onstage right now, but Keith is waiting for him. Since this should settle the matter, Keith returns to his water… but that guy simply slides onto the stool next to him, perching on it so that he’s right on the edge of Keith’s personal space. Maybe he’s not that bad once you get to know him, and he’s good-looking enough that Keith might be able to get through sex with him (as long as the Purple People-Eater stays completely silent), but that’s the thing, though, isn’t it? If he’s going to hover at Keith’s side like they’re six-year-olds playing a game of, _“oooh, I’m not touching you,”_ then Keith doesn’t _want_ to get to know him.

For an uncomfortably long string of moments, the Purple People-Eater merely considers Keith in silence, which is really bad enough. Even trying to focus on the stage, Keith can’t shake off the feeling that it’s high noon and he’s an ant underneath a magnifying glass. The song ends, and while the band banters back and forth, getting ready for the next one, Keith swivels back to his unwanted accompaniment. The Purple People-Eater smiles at him carelessly, and gives Keith the distinct impression of a cat left babysitting an unlocked canary cage. Although he wishes he had a witty retort prepared, Keith only gets himself to glower at this guy and hope like Hell that it conveys every possible variant of _fuck off_ ever felt by a human being.

“Do you have a name, then?” Purple People-Eater says so easily, it makes Keith want to punch him. “Or shall I simply call you, ‘Gorgeous’?”

“Or how about you just don’t call me anything?” Keith deadpans. “Because I’m not interested, and like I already told you? I am here with _someone else_.”

A shrug, and a flip of his ponytail. “Well, I don’t see them anywhere, darling.”

“That doesn’t mean he isn’t here. He’ll be back soon.” God, Keith hopes so.

“How terrible of him to keep you waiting.” Tutting, he leans in closer. “I would _never_ do such a thing to you, if you were so inclined.”

“You wouldn’t ask me to hold a seat for you while you go take a leak? That sounds unrealistic.” And as far as this douchebag needs to know, that is _exactly_ what Keith’s Someone Else is doing.

Maybe Purple People-Eater has something else to say, but fortunately, Bartender Ricki comes back around to ask if Keith wants another glass of water. He does, and takes another Jack-and-Coke as well. He’d planned on cutting himself off at six, but under the obnoxious, purple-haired circumstances, he can be forgiven for getting a little tipsier than planned. At least Shiro told him it’s okay for him to drink, and thanks to Allura and the leftovers in his fridge, Keith ate a decent dinner before coming out tonight. He’d be content to nurse his drink in silence, but a few sips in, Keith gets a shot glass nudged against his elbow.

Jerking back, he only doesn’t knock it over because Purple People-Eater didn’t let it go. He smirks at Keith again, then edges that glass and three more just like it at Keith. They’re all full, nearly to the brim, with an amber liquid that, offhand, Keith doesn’t recognize but an experimental sniff of it makes him think of raisins.

“Patrón _Añejo_ ,” Purple People-Eater explains with a shrug. “Aged in white oak barrels for twelve to fifteen months. I’m on good terms with the owner, she makes sure that the bar is always stocked with some. You ought to try it, seeing as you have the opportunity. It’s _exquisite_.”

Keith lets himself cringe and give this pretentious dick a vocal _ugh_. “Do you listen to yourself when you’re talking? Jesus, when I’m buying my own drinks, I’ll drink gut-rot as long as it gets me drunk.”

“You never will again, after you try this.” By way of example, he takes a too well-mannered sip from one of his own four shots. Fuck’s sakes, he might as well be sticking out his pinky like he’s taking afternoon tea with Her Majesty, the Queen of Asshole Land. Although he doesn’t wince that much, he makes up for it with a crisp and overly dramatic _aaaah!_ like he’s in some commercial for the latest overly popular, allegedly refreshing sports drink. “Come on now, darling; the burn is barely noticeable. You aren’t _nervous_ are you?”

By way of proving that he isn’t, Keith tosses back all four shots in quick succession.

The Goth Trash Purple People-Eater goes wide-eyed and tight-lipped. He falls silent, and Keith manages to hold back on wincing until he’s facing the stage again. Content with his victory, he polishes off his water first, and then the Jack-and-Coke. He only gets another water, but as he fixates on the show — specifically, on Shiro singing something or other about forbidden love, or perhaps a love that’s unrequited — and hopes that the Purple People-Eater takes the hint. For all he has the drink, Keith leaves his glass warming on its coaster. He’s not probably not that drunk, so it’s not a big deal if he doesn’t quite rehydrate. Feeling flush and warm and easy as he watches Shiro squirm against the mic again in time with the mid-tempo not-quite-ballad, Keith huffs and slouches over, puts his elbow on the bar and his cheek in his hand.

“ _So, baby, tell me what you’d have me do_ ,” Shiro croons, sounding so similar to his old stuff that Keith can’t help but sigh. He probably looks like some lovestruck teenybopper, staring up at the desperate, needy expression twisting up Shiro’s entire face, but Keith can’t find a fuck to give. “ _Anything you want, I’d do it all to have you back / Not even back with me, ‘cause you were never mine / Just back where we can talk outside my dreams…_ ”

“Doesn’t sound too punk rock of you,” Keith mumbles toward the bar, only dimly realizing it and not caring enough to make himself shut up. “Sometimes, Takashi, you are _really_ fucking lucky that you’re cute.”

Even without Shiro here in front of him, Keith feels a little jolt of guilt at using his first name. His parents gave it to him for his paternal grandfather, and last Keith knew, Shiro still hadn’t gotten it through his beautiful head that he doesn’t _need_ to live up to or exceed Grandfather Shirogane’s example because he’s a unique person in his own right. Keith can’t blame him, since there’s no way to say that shit without sounding like a bargain rack self-help book, but Shiro would probably be happier if he got that lesson down. Still, he _is_ beautiful, with his legs and his jawline and his stupid, gorgeous hair clouding over his face as he focuses on getting the exact right mournful sound out of his guitar. If he wanted, Shiro could get away with never learning anything, he’s so fucking pretty.

“ _I should’ve said it when I had the chance / I should have told you every day…_ ” Shiro hasn’t looked at anybody during this entire number. He’s looked at his strings and pedal, or at the ceiling, and more than once, he’s let his eyes slip closed. But now, he’s looking toward the bar again, and Keith can barely breathe. “ _That no one else compares to you / And I wanted you to stay…_ ”

“Hey, Shiro? Sinéad O’Connor called. She and Prince’s ghost want to charge you royalties.” Keith yawns behind his hand — _Fuck me, how late is it even getting?_ — and rolls his shoulders in an attempt to stay awake. “Well, no, that’s not fair, is it? I guess they probably don’t _own_ those words, if there’s not enough overlap? They’re pretty common sentiments, I don’t know how that works…”

“ _Baby, I know that you deserve a better man / Someone I can only try to be…_ ”

From this distance, Keith can’t tell for certain, but it sure feels like Shiro’s looking at him. Something shudders down Keith’s spine at that thought, or maybe it’s all the liquor catching up to him, and wherever he’s really looking, Shiro keeps his gaze locked in that one place, singing, “ _But I’d break myself in pieces ’til I got it right / It’s already killing me when you’re away / Please stay…_ ”

Keith holds his breath, waiting for more. But all that comes is Shiro holding a long, tormented note while he ignores his guitar almost entirely, and a deep, heavy bass-line from Lance that kicks Keith in the stomach. As the crowd erupts in applause, something glistens on Shiro’s face — is he crying? No, wait, it’s probably sweat, isn’t it. Playing on a stage with lights like that, putting so much of himself into it… That has to get him worked up, right? Whatever he’s doing, he doesn’t bow for the crowd, but grabs a bottle of water off one of the speakers and chugs it while Lance eggs the crowd on, telling them to show the band some love because was that song or was that song not completely freaking awesome.

“That’s gonna be the lead single off our new album, once we get it up on Bandcamp!” he crows. “At least, it would be if we did lead singles — but, y’know, that’s a Shiro original for you, so how about you give him literally all of the hands you can, people!”

For once, Keith is inclined to agree with Lance, but before he can join the clapping, the Goth Trash Purple People-Eater swoops in front of him, arms crossed over his chest. That oil spill of a smile’s gone, replaced by a grimace that wants to look pensive and menacing, but mostly, it reminds Keith of an irritated kitten.

“I believe that there is some explaining to be done here,” he says. “Specifically, by _you_ , street rat.”

“Oh, what the fuck are you talking about this time?” Keith groans and slumps harder toward the bar. “I am not Aladdin, and I don’t owe you shit.”

Purple People-Eater blinks at Keith, then shakes his head. “I was not deliberately making a reference to that Disney movie, street rat. I was merely commenting that you both look and act like a street rat—”

“A street rat who you wanted to fuck into the nearest flat surface until, like, thirty seconds ago.” Vaguely, it occurs to Keith that he might be a bit more drunk than previously estimated. Still, he doesn’t reach for his water. He isn’t thirsty. “Anyway, I told you. I’m here with someone _else_.”

“Yes, this alleged someone else who has yet to make an appearance, as you sit here, ogling _my_ boyfriend as though he is a piece of meat for _your_ consumption.” His cheeks flush when Keith laughs at that, and he straightens up to his full height. It’d be intimidating if not for the way he stomps like a seven-year-old who didn’t get a pony for his birthday. “You also called him _Takashi_ while you were muttering, so I am compelled to ask: exactly _who_ do you think you _are_?”

“Keith, the street rat, apparently.” Keith shrugs, and snickers at this guy again. “Keith, the street rat, who is so confused as to why you think that Shiro’s _your_ boyfriend, Prince Assface. He invited me tonight, and he was flirting with me pretty hard before their set, so I mean? He might not agree with you on that.”

Maybe it’s not as true as Keith’s making it sound, but this guy is making him wish that he could talk to Lance instead. The sooner he gets pissed and leaves, the better it’ll be for everyone.

Blushing an even deeper shade, the Purple People-Eater hisses, “My name is _Lotor_ , and Shiro absolutely _is_ my boyfriend. He wrote that last song _for me_.”

“Then why was he looking at _me_ while he was singing it?” He probably wasn’t, but as far as this concerns the Purple People-Lotor or whoever the fuck he is? Then Shiro absolutely _was_ looking at Keith, just now.

Whatever he intends to say, it gets drowned out by Lance calling out, “Hey, guys, you know what time it is?” He pauses, beaming at the audience as they shout different suggestions at him. “No, dummies! It’s the time of the show where all of you bootlegging it have to either turn off your cameras, or never post this shit online! Because we’re gonna sing a song that we definitely did not secure the rights to perform—”

“Because we don’t have the patience for it, _or_ that kind of money,” Pidge deadpans into her mic.

“Yeah, what she said!” Lance grins at Pidge, who grins back, and for the first time, Keith actually believes that the two of them might be friends for real, not simply people who are stuck in the same band together. “Anyway, thanks to everyone who voted in our Twitter poll to help us pick tonight’s cover song, this one’s for you! Shirito, you ready?”

Shiro is, apparently, nodding to Lance and waving a hand at Pidge. As she tings out a bubbly string of notes, the Purple People-Lotor turns away from Keith to face the stage. Rather than draw attention back onto himself, Keith leans and cranes his neck, and he can see around the asshole well enough. Something about the song sounds familiar, even with Lance laying down a heavy bass-line and Shiro’s guitar seeming distinctly at-odds with Pidge’s piano parts.

More confounding than anything else, though, is the way that Shiro gets into the song. His playing isn’t discernibly different, beyond him falling into his standard mode for the songs that he wants to put more _oomph!_ into. But his dancing — oh, sweet Jesus. Shiro’s writhing to this song in particular more than he’s done to anything else all night. The effect isn’t something that Keith’s alone in feeling, either. He’s pretty sure he hears this Lotor guy gasp, but he wouldn’t bet on it, just yet. In a sugar-sweet voice, propositions dripping off it like molasses, Shiro sings about being locked up tight, and someone lickin’ their lips and blowin’ kisses Shiro’s way. Fuck shit dammit, the name of the song is _right on the tip of Keith’s tongue_ , it’s nagging at his nerves, but he can’t quite place it, and it’s driving him _crazy_ , if not quite _as_ crazy as the way Shiro’s grinding at the mic-stand. Nothing seems to want to click until Shiro’s strumming gets more intense and he breaks out with—

“ _If you wanna be with me / Baby, there’s a price to pay / I’m a genie in a bottle_ …” He definitely seems to glance at Keith, and winks. “ _You gotta rub me the right way!_ ”

_Christina fucking Aguilera_ — Keith would groan at how ridiculous this is, if not for how much the movements of Shiro’s hips make up for everything. Even if his guitar is in the way more often than not, Keith’s so sure that he could stay right here for the rest of the night, just watching Shiro’s hips, and he’d be happy. At least, he’d be as close to truly happy as he ever gets, which is still a vast improvement on Keith’s average.

*** * ***

“—What do you think you’re doing here?”

The problem with Keith’s idea is that reality does not want to let him have his way. Instead, time keeps moving forward endlessly, and after a few more songs, Keith is still stuck in the same position as he was, slouching over the bar. He can’t be _that_ drunk — he had dinner, and the water, and he hasn’t had any alcohol since Lotor’s shots — but at the same, Keith’s entire body feels warm and slow and comfortable, which almost never happens unless he’s at least moderately shit-faced…

“Where else should I be, exactly? My boyfriend had a show tonight, did he not, _Shiro_?”

“Unless you’re dating Blaine now, then no. _Your_ boyfriend didn’t.”

The argument seems like it’s both right up close and coming in from outer space, and Keith sighs as he nuzzles at his own hand. He’s fine. He’s comfy. No one’s arguing with him about anything, so he just fumbles his Moleskine back into his jacket and settles back in to listen.

“Well, why would I be dating Blaine when I’m dating _you_?”

True, Keith can barely keep up with what’s going on or what’s being said—

“We aren’t dating anymore! How many times do I need to say that before you _get it_?”

“You have said that before without even remotely meaning it—”

“It’s been six months, Lotor! Get _over_ it!”

—but at the same time, it’s not really his business, either?

At least, not until someone grabs Keith by the elbow and starts hauling him away. Dimly, he thinks that he should put up some kind of fight, but as whoever’s dragging him along weaves around the other people, Keith squints until he makes out their face — oh, _Shiro_.

Shiro is _good_. Keith likes Shiro. Smiling up at him, Keith feels his whole body flush again, and he’s grateful for that as Shiro guides them out into the street. It’s so _cold_ — well, maybe it’s more like _nippy_ or _chilly_ , but it’s the coldest night that Keith’s been outside for yet this autumn. Shiro pauses, and Keith’s not sure why, but he doesn’t put up too much fuss as Keith twists his arm away.

Sighing, Keith slings his arms around Shiro’s waist, curls them up tightly but not too tightly, and presses into Shiro’s body. Somewhere above his head, Shiro makes a noise that sounds a bit like, _“eep!”_ — hoping that it might make him relax a bit, Keith noses at Shiro’s back and shoulders and right around the base of his neck. He thinks Shiro might be saying something, but he can’t quite tell? He isn’t trying to ignore Shiro or anything, but it’s so hard to stay focused, and his body is so _warm_ , but the night around them is just — oh. Oh, for God’s sakes, _Shiro_ …

“You didn’t even put on a _jacket_?” Keith mumbles into Shiro’s shoulder. “It’s _cold_ — are you _serious_? In just a _t-shirt_? G’damn, honestly, Shiro, that’s got to be some kind of, like? It’s not like self-harm, is it? No, that’s all like, the cuttin’ or like—”

“Keith, what are you talking about?”

_Talking? Oh, right, **talking**!_

“We’re talking now, aren’t we! We agreed, so why don’t we…” Keith squeezes Shiro, nodding against his back. But all the same— “God, _fuck_ , you feel so _thin_ —”

“Keith, are you… what—”

“ _You_ is what!” Maybe he’s being a bit too handsy, running a hand over Shiro’s abs and then his hip. But once he’s satisfied, Keith drops that and goes back to simply hugging Shiro. “Sorry, I’m sorry… I just got worried like you were getting too skinny again, ’cause you _do_ that when you’re not careful, or when you think nobody notices, an’ then I _notice_ , an’ I worry…”

He sighs, and tightens his hold on Shiro just in case he tries to slip away again. “I missed you so fucking _much_ , Shiro…” he says, and Keith hates how his voice cracks, but Shiro is _here_ , and he’s _warm_ , and they’re _talking_ — except they aren’t right now, are they? Keith has to speak up again, then, he guesses. “I told myself I didn’t miss you, and I tried to tell myself that it was _fine_ , I tried to tell Allura like I didn’t know you but she caught me in the lie, I tried to act like I didn’t want to see you b’cause I _did_ but I _hated_ that I did, and it’s all so _messy_ , but still, I _**missed** you_ …”

He takes a deep breath. “Oh my God, you smell so _sweaty_ , but like, it’s good? And your set was good, I’m sorry for judging your band before, you guys are, like? Not what I expected, and that’s _good_ , isn’t it good?”

Keith’s not sure why he’s saying any of this. All of it. Or any of it. He should shut up for a while, though, and let Shiro get a word in edgewise. So, Keith goes quiet and nuzzles Shiro’s back again.

But Shiro doesn’t say anything. He pries Keith’s arms off of himself and wriggles away. When he turns around, he’s frowning — but he doesn’t look like he’s _mad_ at Keith, exactly? What does he look? Keith can’t tell. He tries to crowd in on Shiro again, to examine his face up close, but then his feet get other ideas and they make him trip. Sure, Shiro catches him, and once they’re steady, he lets Keith slump into his chest? But as he brushes some hair back off Keith’s forehead, Shiro doesn’t relax at all.

“Keith,” he sighs. “How much did you have to drink tonight?”

“Not that much!” Keith frowns and thinks about that. “Okay, maybe that much. But we’re talking now, aren’t we? That’s what we said? The show’s over, so now we’re _talking_ —”

“No, Keith… Not like this.” When Keith tries to protest, Shiro hugs him around the shoulders, but he doesn’t seem happy about it. “You’re _drunk_ , Keith. It’s not fair on either of us… Just let me take you home, okay?”

Keith has to think about that offer more than he probably should.

After a moment, his insides go cold and he shakes his head. “You don’t have to do that for me, Shiro…”

_Just **admit** that you don’t want to, dammit. I’m strong enough to take it. Sparing my feelings is the emotional version of making me your fucking charity case, you ass._

Shiro looks sad — wait, why does he look sad? That doesn’t make any sense. He puts on a wobbly smile that’s obviously fake, and tucks the hair in his fingers behind Keith’s ear.

“Look, at least let me call a ride for you?” he says. “And text me when you get home?”

Keith agrees to that, and after a lonely, thoroughly disappointing ride in the back of some Uber driver’s car, he makes sure to keep his promise. But he doesn’t set an alarm for the morning. It’s a miracle that he gets out of his shoes and jeans before face-planting into his pillow. And although Keith doesn’t cry, something gnawing at the inside of his chest makes him wish like fuck that his tear ducts would get it over with already.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, if you’re reading this and have made it to the end without yelling at Keith, you should go have a cookie or something. If you’ve made it to the end, you should have a cookie regardless. Or some other kind of nice little, “treat yo’self” thing, if you don’t like cookies. Treating yo’self is a Good and you deserve it. I may not know you, but I know that you deserve it. ♡
> 
> Also, I would like to apologize for Shiro’s questionable song lyrics. There’s a reason why I’m not a songwriter (well, several reasons, with one of them being that I have no musical ability whatsoever), and my standard here is, “As long as it sounds at least slightly better than the lyrics that Anne Rice wrote for Lestat’s band in _Queen of the Damned_ , I can still wake up and pretend to like myself.”
> 
> Music notes: the above-mentioned Gregorian chant cover of “Losing My Religion” is absolutely a real thing **[and oh my god, it’s amazing, okay](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8JFGdH5wgCs)**? (To be fair, it also might not be your taste, which is totally cool. But I like it, and since I mentioned it in the fic, I figured throwing in a link is only fair.)
> 
> As for the, “sonic love-child of Suicidal Tendencies and early Leonard Cohen,” the specific songs that I personally had in mind were L. Cohen’s, “[Avalanche](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SQe88ybEIe8),” “[Story of Isaac](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PtdYnhnoGI0),” and, “[Dress Rehearsal Rag](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AhVW0vMljP8)” ( **cw for suicide** in this one), and ST’s, “[Institutionalized](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aYItTxqTc38).”
> 
> Keith’s drunken, “mostly to himself because only Lotor was listening” heckling of Shiro’s one song made reference to the iconic song, “[Nothing Compares 2 U](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0-EF60neguk),” most famously performed by Sinéad O’Connor, and originally written by the late, great Prince.
> 
> For anyone who’d be into this sort of thing, there are probably tons of other punk covers of “Genie In A Bottle” out there, but personally, I’m partial to **[this one by Right Place Right Time](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wATQvGAGDs8)**. It may not be your thing, but it’s _my_ thing, and it’s on the playlist that I’ve been calling, “the least punk of all possible punk AU playlists,” so I thought I’d share.
> 
> (Said playlist is so-called because for every cut like, “I Wanna Be Sedated,” the Violent Femmes’ cover of “No More Heroes,” The Runaways’ “Cherry Bomb,” “What A Waster” by The Libertines, and the Pansy Division song from which I shamelessly ripped off this fic’s title, there are at least five songs like REO Speedwagon’s “Can’t Fight This Feeling Anymore,” Joni Mitchell’s “Both Sides, Now,” Trixie Mattel’s “I Know You All Over Again,” the original version of, “Genie In A Bottle,” Leonard Cohen’s “I’m Your Man” and, “If It Be Your Will,” and “(I Won’t Say) I’m In Love” from the Disney _Hercules_ movie. Also, “Intoxicated” — i.e., Chris Giacometti’s short program music from _Yuri on Ice_ — because I do have shame, but not about how much I like that song, whoops.)


	6. Takashi Shirogane has something to say

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy, so. Some content warnings for this chapter, because it contains: **discussion of an abusive relationship and substance abuse** (though Shiro feels like he’s being pretty inexplicit and there _are_ still several details that he’s leaving out); an **on-screen panic attack, with flashbacks involving said abusive relationship** ; some pretty heavy **self-loathing and shit that Shiro internalized from hearing Sendak say it so often** ; and Lance pushing Shiro too hard in a situation that’s just like, “Oh, honey, your heart is in the right place and you mean so well, but this _really_ isn’t the best way to handle these things.”

Maybe Shiro should’ve gone to bed without a shower. At least if he were a grungy mess, he’d have a reason to _want_ to get out of bed on Sunday morning.

But when he and Lance and Hunk got home from Moonstruck, Shiro was still flushed and twisting himself up over the way Keith had rubbed upon him after the show. Cold showers aren’t one of Shiro’s habits anymore because he generally tries not to put himself positions where he needs them, and he was all but drenched in sweat, so Hunk and Lance didn’t question him ducking into the bathroom. Cooling off and cleaning up let Shiro sleep a little better, like they often do, but it’s not good enough. He still rouses before his alarm, and the best thing he can say about it is that he’s dozing when Hunk nudges his shoulder.

“Hey, buddy,” he says with a small smile, and Shiro can’t tell if it’s uneasy or just a little tired. “You can go back to sleep, soon. Just wanted to let you know I’m gonna be up with Pidge today? I guess she needs some help with something for her art class, she won’t tell me what, but if you need anything, we should be around. And please don’t forget to eat, but also please don’t burn down the apartment?”

Shiro agrees, and thanks Hunk, and he means everything he says because it _does_ mean a lot to him that, for the first time he can actively remember, he has a group of friends who genuinely care about each other. The most he ever had before falling in with the band was Mark (who cared about Shiro but could take or leave Keith), Matt (who cared about Shiro and didn’t mind Mark but never got the chance to meet Keith), Keith (who was complicated, and if anyone were to ask, he couldn’t say whether things between them were more like, “Facebook complicated,” as Lance would put it, or if they were, “actually pretty tangled up and messy”), and Ryou (who liked his brother having friends who, in his words, “didn’t suck,” even if he only personally meshed well with Matt, but was also in either Cambridge or Tokyo for most of this). Having four good friends and his brother, and having all of them enjoy and support each other? Sometimes feels like Shiro must’ve won the lottery.

Still, when his alarm goes off, Shiro bats at it ’til it shuts up, rolls onto his other side, and pulls his comforter up to his neck.

Two bedside tables might seem like overkill, but it’s easier for Shiro if he keeps his effects separated. The alarm clock is closer to the window, which usually means that he has to see the sunlight in order to turn it off, while his set of portable speakers are closer to the door. As he paws around in the drawer, searching for the dark blue iPod, Shiro goes over some of his mindfulness questions from Ulaz: he _should_ eat soon, but he doesn’t feel hungry yet; he doesn’t exactly feel tired but he’s not brimming with energy, either; he takes a few deep breaths to ground himself right here, in this moment; his name is Takashi Shirogane, he’s in his bedroom by himself, and he is safe, and he’s alive…

He gives them up as he settles the player into its spot on the speakers and clicks play. Humming along with Fiona Apple’s “Criminal,” Shiro curls up his legs, cuddles close to the stuffed black lion that Hunk gave him two birthdays ago, and nestles back into something that’s not quite sleep but also not quite wakefulness. He _means_ to get up and handle things sooner rather than later. He _intends_ to keep any dejected emo sulking to a minimum, then go face the day like someone who didn’t spend last night ruining something wonderful by being a total idiot. Instead, Shiro only rouses when his phone jingles with a text.

_Ryou , 9:17 AM: How’d the show go? Sorry I couldn’t be there, I know you did great <3_

Shiro sends back the emoji that looks like a burning flame, followed by a crying face and the icon like a broken heart. Dropping his phone back by the lamp, he turns the volume up for, “Careless Whisper.” No doubt, Lance can hear it, but at the moment, Shiro doesn’t care. He’ll get up soon. For now, though, he’s gonna bury his face into his lion (not quite as good as snuggling Rover, but an acceptable substitute), while he lets George Michael sing his feelings for him.

*** * ***

“Hey, man, what’s up — wait, did he call you?”

“As good as did, yeah.… Oh, jeez. Tell me that’s not Morrissey coming from his room.”

“Technically, it’s The Smiths?”

“That’s the same thing as Morrissey to me, Lance.”

“Well, ‘How Soon Is Now?’ is the same level of moping as most of the Mozzer’s solo stuff for _tu hermano_ , so… Yeah, fair enough, I guess.”

Shiro didn’t mean to lose track of how long he stayed in here, but as he perks up for the voices just beyond his door, he doesn’t want to check the time. Nuzzling his lion, he tries to run the math on this — or some kind of math, anyway. The place that Ryou shares with Slav is about a twenty, twenty-five minute walk from here, less if Ryou rushes but more if he gets distracted at one of the bodegas along the way. Unless he decided to be vain today (unlikely, since he almost never does), he could’ve left within ten minutes of getting Shiro’s text. Maybe he needed a shower? But on the other hand, maybe he didn’t bother taking one. If he’s coming over for Shiro’s sake, he might’ve decided that showering wasn’t necessary—

“How’s he been, today?” Ryou asks with an anxious sigh. “Aside from the obvious, I mean.”

“I mean, I haven’t seen him since he turned in last night, but?” From the sound of it, Lance slumps back against the wall by Shiro’s door. “He hasn’t been repeating songs, so there’s that. Turned up the Wham! — do you even need to _guess_ which song? — but turned it down again for that, _‘When you showed me myself_ , blah blah, _all you wished for and all you need_ , blah blah blah blah, _may God’s love be with you’_ song that he loves so much? He skipped, ‘Paper Bag’ and ‘Coma White,’ which I’d usually say is _good_ , but then he let, ‘Creep,’ the one Mountain Goats song that you really hate for him, and Joni Mitchell play instead?”

Lance groans in frustration, like he wishes he could just be angry. “All together, it’s looking like one of _those_ days, y’know? He’s listening to his moping playlist like we all don’t _know_ that it’s his moping playlist.”

If he could do it without letting them know that he’s been listening, Shiro would set Lance’s facts straight for him. Most people? Yeah, Shiro doesn’t think they know what music he plays when he’s sulking like he is right now. Matt, Hunk, and Pidge can guess reliably, since they have a better idea about Shiro’s habits than the majority of humanity. So does Lotor, for all he thinks of it in terms like, “music Shiro plays when he doesn’t want to talk or let me have my way on things.” Keith used to know and he’s clever, so it wouldn’t take him long to put the current facts together. Ulaz and Shiro’s sponsor, Robin, know only what he tells them, which hasn’t been specific because they’ve cared more about the act of sulking than exactly which songs Shiro plays for any given mood.

But Lance, for all his restlessness and his tendency to overlook things that he doesn’t deem important and his fondness for bad pickup lines that drip with innuendo, is far from stupid. No matter what he thinks of himself, he’s bright and when he cares about something, details don’t escape him that easily. With the people he loves, Lance cares more than he does about almost anything else. And Ryou, on the other hand, has been with Shiro longer than literally anybody, even with the periods when they’ve lived in different places. Between him and Lance, there’s no way they wouldn’t pick out Shiro’s so-called, “moping playlist.”

He wasn’t trying to fool them or get away with anything. Maybe he wasn’t counting on Ryou showing up in person — he and Slav have been so busy with their latest project for work, Shiro thought he’d get a call at most — but Shiro _wanted_ Lance to recognize this playlist because he can count on Lance to _ask_ about it.

Also, Shiro _likes_ this music, whether he’s in a _Mood_ or not. _Moods_ simply make it more appealing, since it’s nice to remember that he’s not alone in experiencing these feelings. Lance and Ryou no doubt care more about the part where Shiro pulls stunts like this instead of asking for help like someone who can pass for healthy. But in the meantime, one of them knocks and Shiro bids him come in.

Ryou shuts the door behind him and makes a beeline to kneel by Shiro’s bedside, pausing only to turn off the music partway through Hole’s “Doll Parts.” He has a gentle smile as he brushes some stray hair out of Shiro’s eyes. It makes his full, soft face look even kinder, but it’s small, less an intentional expression than the way that Ryou’s mouth sets itself by default. Nudging his lion down, Shiro tries to smile back at this face that’s a near-perfect reflection of his own, aside from the extra weight and the missing scar. He drops the attempt when Ryou tucks the hair behind his ear, telling him without words that it’s okay to admit when he’s not okay.

Shuffling around, Shiro burrows his lion into his chest a bit, takes a long, quiet look at his brother. Clean hair but not damp, though Ryou also hasn’t spiked it up today. One of his old t-shirts from MIT strains around his modest, chubby belly, but not so much that Shiro would accuse him of grabbing a top that outright doesn’t fit. Being more secure in his body than Shiro is in his, but that’s not news and it’s something that Shiro’s felt jealous of before, but not an accusation. From this position, Shiro can’t tell much about Ryou’s jeans beyond noting that they’re intact and seem pretty clean, but shifting his head to look at them gives Ryou a better angle to keep playing with his hair.

“Not that I ever like you being miserable? But it’s a good day for it, if that helps?” Ryou says so with a calculated easiness, tucking Shiro’s fringe behind his ear. “I needed to get out of the apartment anyway.”

Shiro almost manages a smile as he catches a glimpse of the tattoo on Ryou’s inner arm. Even if it’s backwards to him, he’d know that quote anywhere: _“Ohana means family. Family means no one gets left behind”_ — Ryou’s favorite line from any movie he has ever seen. The only other ink he has is the Pisces symbol on his lower back, one of Shiro’s designs. Shiro has one just like it, and Ryou only got his fishes done so that they’d match.

“I’m an _idiot_.” Shiro sighs and curls his fingers up in his lion’s mane. “The show went _great_ , and God, I should be happy?”

“You should be however you feel. It isn’t wrong—”

“But I didn’t _think_ , so I rushed right into something, and then I broke everything, and probably hurt someone important. Because I didn’t plan and I didn’t think, because I am an _idiot_.”

Leaning a bit heavier on the mattress, Ryou lets his face fall into a tired, but still sympathetic, not-quite-frown. “Yeah, you might have messed up, I don’t know. But you remember what Ulaz told you?”

Nodding, Shiro knows he won’t get the words exactly right, but he still tries: “Acknowledging it when I mess up is important, but so is not letting it completely throw me off. Fall down seven times, stand up eight. Look life in the eye and tell it, ‘I get knocked down, but I get up again. You’re never gonna keep me down.’”

“Pretty sure your shrink has _literally_ never quoted Chumbawumba at you, dweeb.” Even so, Ryou snorts and gives Shiro a shy smirk. “He seems like more of a David Bowie kinda guy. Or maybe Jimi Hendrix. What do I know, maybe both.”

“Because you can totally tell that after talking to him once, for half-an-hour, almost two years ago?”

“Maybe not. I _can_ tell when you’re dodging the real questions, though.”

Not that it matters at present, but Shiro doesn’t feel like he’s been dodging _that_ badly. It’s just easy to slip into a comfortable back-and-forth with his brother. Either way, this is the part where he should either open up, or offer something reassuring, except that both options feel like he’d be lying. He _wants_ to insist that this is only garden-variety emo romantic wallowing, not (pre-)depressive moping in need of actual intervention — even if Ryou wanted to get out of his apartment anyway, even if there’s good reason for him and Lance to worry that this is exactly what they think, even if Shiro’s idea had been piquing someone’s interest — but as he tries to get his brain and mouth around the words, Shiro isn’t sure that he’d be right to say so.

Without any other ideas that seem halfway decent, he nudges at Ryou’s arms until he backs up. He sits up and pokes at his phone, setting his lion in his lap and letting the comforter fall wherever it wants when he’s done kicking his way out of it. Leaning against the headboard, he huffs.

“Little bit after eleven’s not _that_ bad for a Sunday morning. ‘specially not with Mr. Phalen giving me a long weekend.”

Strictly speaking, Shiro would rather not have had a long weekend, since his personal biggest reason for working at the bookstore is needing something to do with himself. But yesterday was his boss’s anniversary, and he can’t fault Mr. Phalen and his husband for wanting to get away for a couple days to celebrate. He might’ve picked Martha’s Vineyards instead of going into Manhattan, but that’s just Shiro. Moreover, the way that Ryou’s eyebrow arches at him suggests that none of this is quite the point.

Shiro slouches. As free of self-judgment as he can manage (which isn’t much, but at least he’s trying), he says, “Considering it’s _me_ , though? Can’t blame you for worrying.”

“We weren’t _worried_ yet, exactly? Concerned, more like. That, and trying to help you out with upkeep and maintenance where we can.” For all Ryou smiled at Shiro sitting up, though, his shoulders droop as he adds, “I do kinda need you to translate your last text for me, though? I’m trying, but… I still don’t speak Emoji?”

“I probably could’ve picked better ones, yeah, but…” Shiro sighs and takes a moment, but he can’t think of any better way to put it: “What happened last night is that Keith hates me.”

Shiro cleans up his inbox’s morning spam of promotions he’s not interested in right now, and reads his three Word of the Day emails before he realizes how much pause this statement gave his brother. Furrowing his brow in confusion, Ryou blinks at the wall, then at Shiro’s ceiling fan, then his sheets. All the while, he’s mouthing, _“Keith? …Keith? …Keith?”_ and looking like Shiro asked him to decipher some ancient secret code, written in a language that no one understands anymore, save for the Pope, a few cardinals, and a handful of little-known scholars who probably won’t make it to 2030.

“Keith Kogane?” he offers. “From back home, then Chicago? Bryce’s foster brother?” When Ryou still has that look like his brain’s stalled out while processing this information, Shiro gently flicks him in the arm. “He came with me to Christmas in 2011 and 2012. You got jealous because Duchess liked him more than you.”

“Oh! _That_ Keith!” Finally, Ryou’s face lights up with recognition. “Short, skinny, cranky Keith. Red jacket, black hair?”

“He’s not _that_ short. We are just unfairly tall.”

Typical Ryou, though: when in doubt, relate something to a cat he loves and everything clicks into place. In this case, Aunt Satomi’s grouchy old tabby, who’d always hated everybody who got near her, save for Satomi, Ryou, and Keith, to everyone’s surprise.

But remembering Keith doesn’t stop Ryou looking completely lost as he says, “Did I miss a text or twenty? Because I’m pretty sure that’s someone I haven’t heard about in a good minute?”

Now that Ryou mentions it — Shiro cringes, groans, and rubs his temples. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to, like? Cut you out of the loop or anything? I would’ve told you in a better way if he hadn’t shown up last night? But then you’ve been _busy_ , and I didn’t know how things would _go_ with him, or if there’d even be any things in the first place, and I just…”

As he’s thinking on how to word the rest of this, Shiro’s stomach growls. His cheeks flush, though Ryou doesn’t seem to have noticed. With a huff, Shiro grabs an elastic off the bedside table.

“Can I catch you up over breakfast?” he says, tying up his hair. “Or brunch? Whatever it is now, I don’t care. Point is, I’m hungry.”

In lieu of verbal confirmation, Shiro takes his brother’s dewy-eyed, face-straining grin as a very Ryou way of saying, _“yes.”_

****

*** * ***

At Lance’s insistence, all Keith-related talk gets stowed until everybody’s eaten and had coffee.

In general, it’s not a bad idea. Lance will be more open to listening if he’s eaten, and even if Shiro wanted to argue otherwise, he has a long history that says he’s better at handling his emotions when he’s eating decently. Ryou already had breakfast before coming, but he enjoys cooking and one of the ways that the Texas in him comes out most clearly is in his habit of feeding anyone who lets him or stands still long enough for him to rope them into it.

Plus, after nearly four years of dealing with this, Ryou still feels like he might trigger Shiro by not eating something whenever he does. Shiro feels like that’s ridiculous, but they’re not going to untangle this today. Neither of them is wrong. Both of them have fair points and places where they’re likely being too stubborn or losing some kind of perspective. They’re working on it, kind of, but like Ulaz says, Shiro has to accept that this, like so many things, is going to be a _process_.

Either way, Shiro agrees to tabling the Keith-talk for now. Once he’s had some water, his Vitamin D, and his Effexor, though, that plan leaves him with nothing to do while Lance and Ryou squabble over whether to cook the eggs with butter, coconut oil, or cooking spray. True, Shiro can’t blame anyone but himself for his kitchen probation, but listening to them makes his idle leg-bouncing worse. At least they’re arguing about issues of taste and texture today, not tiptoeing around eggshells like, _“How many calories does that one have, what is this one’s breakdown of fats”_ that obviously mean, _“Which option do we think is best for Shiro by some definition of, ‘best’ that isn’t his.”_

Trying to rein his fidgeting in so it won’t throw Lance off or get him agitated, Shiro gets his sketchbook and assorted colored pencils. He might not be doing great at words this morning, but in theory, slouching over the kitchen table and slapping some color on the page works more than well enough as a means of keeping him busy and getting his feelings outside of his own head.

The first page he opens to doesn’t get filled, but Shiro quickly tires of the messy scribble he puts down on it. Not that he couldn’t make something out of it, with some effort, but something doesn’t feel _right_ about how he mashes together the violet, red, and black. The lines are too fluid, and something about it all seems too undefined. On the second page, Shiro tries using sharper lines, borrowing the spine of Lance’s _Hyperbole and a Half_ paperback to make them as straight as possible — but that doesn’t quite work out, either, because he’s not really sure what he’s trying to draw and he isn’t leaving himself much room for improvisation or easy backtracking. At least, as he flips onto page three, Shiro feels like he should’ve killed a good twenty minutes and maybe food is ready, he just hasn’t paid enough attention to smell it yet.

Except that breakfast isn’t ready, the clock on the microwave says _11:19_ , and Shiro is still hungry.

He considers doodling Keith, but really, the hungry thing is getting to him. Maybe he’s not at the head-swimming, woozy and dimly headachey level yet, but he’s at the point where it feels like drawing isn’t helping. He’s not getting any of it right, and his sketchbook is too easy to get lost in. So, he practices rolling his sobriety chip over his knuckles, but even though his hands aren’t shaking, he hasn’t gotten the balancing act for this trick down, yet. Trying to ground himself and breathe and focus on being patient only serves to remind him that he probably should’ve dragged himself out of bed and eaten sooner, even if it was just cereal or toaster-waffles, because those, he’s currently allowed to make himself.

It all makes Shiro want to help move things along instead of sitting here like a human fire hazard. There are totally ways that he could. As he tunes back in on Lance and Ryou, they’ve moved on to debating who has to dice the onions because neither of them wants to do it, and Shiro barely stifles his impulse to groan. Drawling, _“I’ll do it **myself** if it’ll shut y’all up”_ finally makes them agree on something.

“Brother, which part of, ‘kitchen probation’ are you uncomprehending of?” Ryou folds his arms over his chest and tries so hard to look Serious that Shiro can’t help snickering.

When Ryou doesn’t soften, Shiro meets him with an open roll of the eyes. “Cutting vegetables doesn’t involve oil, heat, fire, or the stove. We have safety knives, so even if I _wanted_ to cut myself, which I don’t, I _couldn’t_. You two are here to supervise and keep me from doing something stupid like putting metal in the microwave or forgetting to add water to the Easy Mac. Why can’t I help?”

True, both of those examples are as real as Shiro’s misadventure with the grilled cheese grease fire, but they happened when he was a sixteen-year-old Columbia College freshman. Also, the latter involved him being incredibly sleep-deprived, and Mark stopped the former before it sparked too much or set off the fire alarm at their dorm and forced everyone to stand outside in the freezing rain again. Even so, Lance puts his hands on his hips and frowns.

“Why can’t you chill out and draw something, though?” he says, trying very hard not to sneer in impatience. “‘cause you had a pretty stressful night, and both of us give you _permission_ to sit out and rest?”

“Especially since you are actually _letting yourself_ say, ‘y’all’?” Ryou adds. “Which, y’know, only tends to happen when you’re tired, or upset, or otherwise exceptionally out-of-it?”

Historically speaking, it’s also happened when Shiro has been exceptionally intoxicated, but he appreciates that Ryou leaves that part out. He’s less appreciative of the way that Ryou arches his eyebrows and pouts as if he’s saying, _“I don’t know,”_ which would likely fool most people, but Shiro recognizes this look all too well: Ryou’s daring his brother to say he’s wrong about when Shiro does or doesn’t let a, _“y’all”_ slip out. Shiro _can’t_ , just like he can’t argue with Lance about having had a stressful night, or debate the, “We give you our permission to sit on ice and relax” phrasing without sounding like an ungrateful jerk who may or may not be at risk of somehow backsliding about _something_.

The lack of playable moves here grates harder than not being allowed to help. But at least Lance and Ryou get their shit together: they play rock-paper-scissors to see who has to dice the onions (Lance), and by 11:42, omelettes finally get passed around.

Things are better after breakfast, or anyway, Lance seems calmer (by his standards) and Shiro’s nerves aren’t quite so tightly wound.

But they don’t get back to Keith-talk right away. Instead, the dishes get done and the counter gets cleaned up, and by the time they’re wondering how to fill a mutual day off, no one’s spoken up with, _“So, hey, are we going to catch Ryou up on Keith?”_

No one brings it up while Lance and Ryou hammer out the exact viewing order of today’s Disney movies, either. For all Shiro feels like he should, he leans back into the sofa, putting his feet on the edge of the coffee table and carefully avoiding his coffee and his thermos of ice water. Letting his sketchbook draw him in again, he fills a page with doodles of Keith instead of talking, while Lance and Ryou agree on final decisions: _Sleeping Beauty_ first because although neither of them hates it, they don’t particularly enjoy it either, but Shiro has yet to get over his kiddie-crush on Prince Philip. After that, _Aladdin_ because Lance had to dice the onions and that one is his favorite. Then, _Hercules_ — an admittedly odd suggestion for Ryou, until he adds on that they should cap things off with either _Lilo and Stitch_ or _The Great Mouse Detective_ entirely because romance isn’t the central point of either.

Lance votes for, “Okay, but why not both?” and they flip a coin to see which movie gets which spot.

Maybe Shiro’s lagging more than he thinks, because he definitely _intends_ to bring Keith up before anybody else can get the chance.

Instead, they make it through _Sleeping Beauty_ without anything more than Lance humoring him through a sing-along of, “Once Upon A Dream,” and Keith doesn’t come up at all until Prince Achmed calls Aladdin, “street rat.” As soon as Lance hears it, he starts groaning about how, when he and Hunk went to pay the band’s tab last night, Ricki told them about Lotor using the same phrase for Keith, and why does Lotor have to try and ruin abso-fricking-lutely _everything_ , like where does he even get off. The objection wells up in Shiro’s throat immediately — he saw Lotor sitting next to Keith, but they weren’t _talking_ , or God, he hopes they weren’t — but Ryou beats him to the punch on speaking up.

_“Yeah, wait, what is going on with Keith, anyway? How does Lance know who he is now?”_ — it shouldn’t be that difficult a question, with how straightforward the past few days’ events feel. But at the same time, what is Shiro supposed to say about this? About any of it? Where is he even supposed to _start_?

At the beginning, or the point that could most easily be so-called, he guesses. Wednesday went surprisingly well overall, especially since Shiro spent most of the day on-edge and might’ve forgotten to take a break for lunch if Hunk hadn’t swung by the bookshop.

“Yeah,” Lance chimes in, “you were a nervous mess because Lotor kept hovering outside the window ’til your boss’s husband moved his douchebag motorcycle so it was parked illegally and called the cops to get it towed. Then, over dinner, he sent you dick pics and you freaked the Hell out but you wouldn’t take your stupid Xanax.”

At that, Ryou looks away from the TV and turns in his seat to better shoot one of those skin-crawlingly earnest, kicked puppy-looking frowns like, _“How could you even? We’ve talked about this, Kashi. You know better”_ over at his brother. Pursing his lips and adjusting his sketchbook against his legs, Shiro shrinks back against his corner of the sofa. He wishes that he could glare down the couch at Lance in good conscience. He’d be in the wrong, though. Much as he’d prefer this sort of thing to be his business exclusively, Lance has a fair, unspoken point that Ryou deserves to know about his brother struggling with his anxiety meds.

“I’m working on it with Ulaz, okay? I promise.” Not that it matters when Ryou’s going to be worried anyway and Shiro has no grounds to hold that against him, but he _is_ working on this.

Refusing to let them dwell on the Xanax question when it’s not the point, Shiro moves on to how he got to rehearsal excited, and full of nervous energy, and eager to vent some of his frustration through music. Except he probably should’ve reined it in a bit, because then they went too late ( _“According to Mighty Mullet,”_ Lance says, unhelpfully), and someone came down from the apartments to yell at them, and that someone turned out to be Keith of all people. Shiro didn’t realize it for a minute, but, _“I don’t have a lawn, I barely have an apartment”_ was such a very _Keith_ response to how Lance tried to heckle him.

“How did you have absolutely no idea that he was out here, though?” Ryou points out, drawling as if his real question is more like, _“If you really loved him so much, then why did you ever let him slip away?”_

Or maybe that’s Shiro projecting again, because he’s asked himself that question more times than he cares to count. Yet, there’s definitely subtext in his brother’s voice. Maybe Ryou’s real question is closer to, _“Did you even **try** to catch up with him when you got out of Chicago? Out of rehab? You’ve been reconnecting with our cousins, but not the guy whom you have clearly never gotten over?”_

Shiro shrugs. “You don’t want to know what Maurice did the one time I called Keith after his so-called intervention,” he says, meaning that he doesn’t want to talk about that incident. “By the time I could call people freely again, someone else had Keith’s old number.”

Butting his foot against Shiro’s thigh, Lance huffs. “So, how come you’re still getting all starry-eyed like you wanna quiznakking marry him when he _abandoned_ you?” As he realizes what he suggested, he cringes. “ _ **Please**_ tell me that you don’t want to marry him, _bonito_.”

“For once? I’m with Lance. Not for quite the same reasons as Lance, but…” Ryou sighs and takes a long drink of his coffee. “Is all of this the thing you said that you rushed last night? Because trying to run right into being Mr. Takashi Kogane seems like a pretty boneheaded idea on your part, if that’s what you did. Does anybody else need a refill? Or how about tea? Kashi, you look like you could use some _tea_.”

“Why _not_ for quite the same reasons as me? But yes, I’m in for tea, if you’re making some.” Lance slouches with an irate huff, and nods as Ryou moves to grab his empty mug. “Really, though, why are _my_ reasons wrong? Shiro was in a bad place, right? Coño Maurice was doing I don’t entirely know what because you two won’t tell me—”

“Lance, please trust me when I say that you _do not_ want to know everything that happened with Maurice in detail.” Ryou looks him dead in the eye as he explains, “Even I don’t know all the details, and what I know is bad enough. Let Shiro tell you about it or not on his own time, okay?”

As Ryou makes off for the kitchen, Shiro is unspeakably grateful for him and feels like he could actually stand to clarify a few things for Lance without prompting.

But, as per their usual, Lance beats him to it: “Look, I’m sorry,” he says, with an earnest sigh. “I’m not _trying_ to be, like, an insensitive prick? But if Keith ever deserved to be with you, then why didn’t he, I don’t know? Go bust into Coño Maurice’s place and save you when you _needed_ him?”

“Because it wouldn’t have worked, Lancey-Lance. It wasn’t like whatever you’re thinking.” Shiro drops one of Lance’s self-given nicknames and gives him a half-smile by way of saying that he isn’t angry. Since it’s not shaking out like he’ll get anything drawn, the sketchbook goes on the coffee-table and Shiro uncurls one of his legs (which goes stiffly — God, how much discomfort did he successfully ignore?), but he still hugs the other as he puzzles out the best way to put this into words.

“Look, for one thing? Keith had no idea where Maurice lived.” There, that works: start Lance off with the simple, undeniable, practical aspects of everything. “Hell, I barely even knew where he lived until the so-called intervention and making me move in with him and Haxus. Anytime he wanted to remind me that Haxus was his partner and I was his… y’know, his _fuck-toy_?”

Shiro swallows thickly, because God, he hates the description he’s using for himself, not least because _Maurice_ loved calling Shiro that. Unfortunately, no other word quite captures how Maurice treated him: “When he was in the mood to remind me that I was his fuck-toy and I needed him more than he needed me? He’d get a room at a ritzy hotel, tell me to show up looking as presentable as possible, and bring Haxus along to pick at everything about me. He’d lord it over me that he was my most reliable hookup for pills, too. Which would remind me how I was the ex-gifted and talented whiz kid who burned out early and made dumb music on Youtube, while Haxus was a _doctor_ , and _respectable_ , and actually _deserved_ to be with Maurice.”

“Maybe it’s just me? But I’m pretty sure _nobody_ deserves to be with someone like Maurice. Except maybe Haxus, but that’s ‘cause he was just as awful, not because there’s anything wrong with you!” Lance blushes once he’s said so, and immediately apologizes, but honestly, with how much he cares, it might be a miracle that he’s restrained himself for so long.

“I’m saying how it felt at the time, not how it actually was.” Maybe Shiro could’ve made it clearer, but at the same time, this conversation’s difficult enough as is. “Anyway, Keith had no idea where to start looking when Maurice moved me into his place. But even if he had, it still wouldn’t have worked for him to charge in on a white stallion, with a sword drawn and the whole nine.”

“Why _not_!” Both Lance’s pleading expression and the desperation in his outburst kick Shiro in the chest with guilt, and when all he does is slouch a bit more, Lance _sighs_. “Maurice _never_ should’ve happened to you, right? So, how can you make excuses for someone who sat by and _let him_? Is it because he’s _cute_? Because he wasn’t a total dick to you? He gave you the best blowjob you’ve ever had in your entire life? Shirito, _please_ , stop me if I guess it, ‘cause—”

“I _told him_ not to come after me, okay?” Shiro spits it out, then takes a moment so he can go on without being unnecessarily loud. Straining his voice is a bad idea, and he shouldn’t be yelling at Lance to begin with, when all he’s done is be protective of his friends and ignorant, through no fault of his own.

Before he can talk himself out of going on, Shiro clenches his fingers in the fabric of his plaid pajama bottoms and tells Lance, “When Maurice moved me out of mine and Keith’s and Mark’s place? He did stage it as an intervention. Getting me help for my own benefit, because I was way more off the rails than I realized — or that’s what he said. And he had some good evidence supporting him.”

“Shiro, please,” Lance cuts in while Shiro’s trying to keep his breathing as even as possible. He shuffles across the cushions, but hesitates when he edges into Shiro’s personal space. “Man, I’m sorry — I pushed too hard, you don’t have to tell me anything else, I’m a dumb-ass, and I should’ve stopped, but I’m an idiot—”

“No, you’re _not_.” It comes out more firmly than Shiro intended, and as he locks eyes with Lance, he hopes that his friend’s expression is only one of shock, not fear. “Yes, you pushed too hard, and _yes_ , you should’ve stopped. But you aren’t an idiot, and I’m not mad. I just — we opened the box now, and since we can’t close it up again, I _need_ you to understand, okay? So, will you _please_ let me finish?”

Shiro waits for Lance to nod and mime zipping his lips before starting up again: “When the _intervention_ with Maurice went down, I believed he was going to take me to get help. He and Haxus knew that wasn’t happening. When it turned out that rehab or whatever wasn’t the plan, I didn’t question it as much as I should’ve because the only reason I was gonna go through with getting help? Was so Ryou, Keith, Aunt Satomi, and Mark would all calm down. Because I was eating Vicodin and Oxycontin more than food, and getting most of my calories from alcohol and fruit juice, but I’d lived through getting stabbed by a skinhead, Trevor crashing his Dad’s Porsche, and a couple of borderline OD’s — I didn’t even go to the ER for most of them — so I thought that I was fine.”

The teakettle whistles in the kitchen, a small, scared sound comes out of Lance, and Shiro looks up from the coffee-table. But all Lance does is shake his head and wave at the TV, which Shiro guesses means that he has Lance’s leave to keep going.

“Well, you remember what Maurice’s arrangement with Haxus was? ‘You can sleep around all you want, just don’t fall in love with anyone but me’?” He waits for Lance to nod in understanding, then shrugs. “After I got to be Maurice’s _favorite_ side-piece — which was, like, a couple months before Keith got to Chicago — he set a similar rule with me, like? ‘Have as much sex with as many guys as you want, but don’t fall in love with them, because you owe me and your loyalty is mine.’ Not those words exactly, but something like them. While maintaining that I was just his…” Another gulp. “Just his _fuck-toy_. And like an idiot, I thought, ‘Maybe this means he cares about me after all’ — which, I mean, it _did_ , but…” A deep breath, which shudders on its way out. “Definitely not in the way that I was hoping.”

“You are not an idiot for wanting someone to care about you,” says Ryou, finally coming back with a host of mugs set on one of Hunk’s larger serving plates. Luckily, he’s the one who fetched them so everything is color-coded: blue for Lance, lilac for Ryou, and black for Shiro.

“I didn’t say I was an idiot for wanting someone to care about me,” he points out, picking up his two-bag mug of green tea. Of course it hasn’t steeped enough, but Shiro wants something to hold onto. “I said I was an idiot for believing that Maurice would ever care about me in the way I wanted.”

“He got inside your head and made you believe a lot of things that weren’t true. It _is not_ your fault.” Perching on the edge of his seat, Ryou wrinkles his nose. “But if you’re really doing this, you should probably get to the rest before waiting totally up and kills Lance? Or before dragging it out kills you? Because both of you are better when you’re alive?”

Shiro sighs and nudges Lance’s shoulder with his own, trying to make sure that he’s still with them. “After Keith showed up, it was, like? I was helping out a friend who’d aged out of the foster system and had basically nothing while I had way more than I ever needed. Financially, anyway. Emotionally, I needed to not be attached to Maurice, and had too many moments of hating myself for being twenty-one and two years out of college but still crying myself sick because I wanted my _Mom_. But Keith didn’t know that part for a while. He’d hitched his way up north, he didn’t even remember I’d gone there for school, we found each other by _accident_ , and…”

A shrug. “I didn’t mean for anything more to happen than, ‘I have another friend and roommate now.’ There was this early misunderstanding where he freaked and ran out into a snowstorm in just a hoodie, talking like he couldn’t stay there anymore? I went after him, to bring him back, but I felt like I would’ve done that for anyone. Once things _did_ start happening, I thought it wouldn’t get romantic between us. I mean, we went really slow by my standards at the time, but there were rules and I’d made _promises_ , and I didn’t intend to break any of them? But then I failed _hard_ , and I fell for him harder, and when I couldn’t deny it to myself anymore, the name of the game became, ‘Keep Maurice from finding out.’ Because as long as he didn’t know, I figured I could handle things. I thought I could break things off with him myself, if Keith wanted me back.”

Shiro tries to mask his deep breath as smelling his tea. He’s probably not fooling Lance or Ryou, but he’ll live. His nerves aren’t any steadier, but he makes himself keep going, because he can do this and he doesn’t need his Xanax: “I kept trying to figure out how he felt about me, but I couldn’t tell if he was rejecting me or I wasn’t being obvious enough. The day I was going to tell him everything, when he got back from work? That was the day Maurice moved me into his place. He came while Keith and Mark were both out, made me pack up everything…”

Although Lance stays quiet, he must interpret Shiro’s pause as a need for emotional support and reassurance. His pause, or maybe the way he’s gripping his mug for dear life, or maybe Shiro’s let his voice start quivering while trying to keep it steady… Whatever gives Lance the inspiration, he puts his head on Shiro’s shoulder, and manages to make it seem like _he’s_ the one doing the protecting here, rather than the other way around.

“Really, I should’ve seen it coming?” Shiro has to force the words out of himself, and he hates the way his voice tightens and jumps a few notes higher. Even when it goes back down, though, the trembling won’t stop. “Maurice knew I put my music on Youtube. I never name-dropped Keith, but I wrote a couple songs with him in mind and there was no way Maurice could’ve thought they were about him. None of the details lined up, and one of them definitely dropped an, _‘I love you’_ in there. After I tried to call Keith — which was a mess, I was so high, I barely even remember what we said before Haxus caught me and told Maurice — but then, Maurice let me send him a letter. He even swore not to check it before letting me send it, but only as long as I broke things off with Keith. And I…”

His breath hitches in his throat. He clenches down harder on his mug. His fingers are trembling, but he can’t tell if it’s because of how tight his grip is getting — he can see his knuckles going white, but it doesn’t feel like he’s holding on that tightly — or because his nerves are going to fail him soon. Shiro forces himself to take deep breaths and each one rattles, makes him wonder how they’re still coming, how he can keep them going. Trying to go on, he coughs up a breathy, mirthless laugh. His throat feels dry, even though he knows it isn’t, and he feels like something’s closing in around it — something big and firm, throttling him while a deep, lofty voice growls at him to _behave, keep still, **good boy**_ — even though he looks down and nothing’s there.

Shiro doesn’t remember how to make his voice work properly until Lance gently squeezes his knee.

“I didn’t _want_ to, but I didn’t know what else to _do_. Maurice had money and connections. It felt like he could’ve made _anything_ happen to Keith, just to punish me for failing him and falling in love. Except it wasn’t all for Keith, I… told myself it was? But as much as I didn’t want him getting hurt, I also didn’t want to feel like it was my fault, and I didn’t…” He swallows thickly, and wishes that his cheeks would burn with shame instead of making his insides feel so _cold_. “I had to know where my drugs were coming from. Felt like I couldn’t go back to finding them without Maurice and Haxus. I’d had too many close calls, and I didn’t want to get arrested or into trouble with anyone who might’ve sold them to me. I cared about that more than about the part where it was a miracle that I hadn’t _died_ …”

Shiro’s voice _isn’t_ breaking, now. It’s not, because he refuses to let it. Any cracks are everyone’s imagination, not real things that are actually happening, because Shiro can keep it together while talking about this. More than that, he can keep it together on his own, and he _needs_ to keep it together on his own. He is _going_ to keep it together without his pills because he _does not need them_.

But reaching out for other people is still fine, right? That isn’t the same as reaching for a little orange bottle of Alprazolam every time something from the back of his mind tries to reach its oily, tentacle-like feelers up into the present and jerk him back into the past. People are not pills. Relying on your friends is not the same thing as chemical dependency. Hoping that he’s right about this, Shiro drops one of his hands, going for Lance’s leg, but knocks into his arm. Fumbling, he doesn’t look down but tries to weave around until he finds Lance’s leg. Instead, Lance takes his hand and laces their fingers together, nuzzling at Shiro’s shoulder.

“Maurice made me use his P.O. box as the return address, so Keith couldn’t track the letter, which obviously worked out how he wanted.” He wants to lean his head onto Lance’s, but he isn’t going to. Shiro appreciates the gesture, but he can still keep himself together on his own. He can do it. Whatever it takes, he can do it. “I didn’t — he probably wanted me to be harsher? Make it a proper breakup letter and make Keith hate me. But he swore not to read it, so I didn’t. It was bad enough that I couldn’t talk to Keith anymore, I couldn’t deliberately hurt him on top of that. I just told him that he deserved to have a life and not to wait for me, that I’d be okay but he should go, and like…”

As he trails off, Lance gives his hand a squeeze. It doesn’t make Shiro feel any warmer inside, but it helps steady him enough to say, “I told him not to come after me, right? Told him Maurice and Aunt Satomi talked me into getting help. He knew she’d been pushing that ever since Trevor crashed the Porsche. I thought he’d take it better if she — I mean, if I lied about her being involved? But I… I _thought_ that I could handle things myself. I thought I _had_ to handle things myself. And I thought they’d be okay? Except after I sent the letter, Maurice had Haxus cut off my pills for a week. When I didn’t start detoxing, he made me turn over every stash I had and cut me off for two weeks so I’d _learn my lesson_. Going through withdrawal is bad enough when you _aren’t_ starving, but I hadn’t been able to let myself eat much of anything for three days, and anything I tried to eat after that, I couldn’t keep down… Maurice said it was so I could more accurately pretend I’d actually been in rehab when people asked about it, but it wasn’t, like? He didn’t need to tell me, I just _knew_ …”

Sighing, Shiro holds onto Lance’s hand tighter. “I knew it was because I’d fallen in love with Keith. And I _knew_ I’d been right in telling Keith to go have a life and make himself happy, because if he’d stayed in Chicago, if he’d ever tried to find me, Maurice could’ve done anything he wanted to both of us, and Keith had everything he wanted ahead of him. He didn’t _peak at sixteen_ then go off the rails and collapse into a _**black hole**_ , the way that I’d done, and I thought I was doing the best thing for him, even the selfish parts, I thought they’d work out better — I _thought_ that he’d be _better off **without** me_ there to ruin everything, but now he _**hates**_ me, and I _deserve_ that, like? I _am_ a black hole, and even worse, so Keith’s _right_ to hate me, he’s…”

Okay, maybe his voice is breaking sort of. But it’s not going to get worse. It can’t, because Shiro will not let it, no matter how much his brain wants him to think that he can feel the one of Maurice’s huge, hairy hands ghosting up and down his spine while the other one grips onto his shoulder like a vise, threatening to leave bruises but never making good on that because Shiro might have enjoyed them too much — no matter how much he thinks that he can smell his acrid, thick cologne that was sexy until it started making Shiro wish that he were dead — no matter how much he can still hear Maurice cackling that Shiro’s a monster, too damaged for anyone to really love him and too broken to belong anywhere but with him, breath hot and sticky against Shiro’s ear, teeth sharp on his earlobe but so careful to never break the skin — and _oh, God, why aren’t his lungs **working** , why is there something in his chest that’s clamping on his lungs, why can’t he breathe, even shallow breaths would be okay, he’d take them but he **cannot breathe, oh God** , where is his heart, does he still have one, is it beating, why can’t Shiro feel his heartbeat, what is **wrong** with him_ —

“Shirito?” Lance’s voice is soft and tight as he squeezes Shiro’s hand, lifts his head off Shiro’s shoulder. “ _Shiro_ , you okay?”

He tries to nod, but his neck gets other ideas, shaking his head for him. “I’m going to let go of your hand,” he tells Lance, struggling to get the words out, hating how small and shaky and _pathetic_ his voice sounds, but sucking it up because he can’t take them back and he isn’t dying, he isn’t passing out, but oh _God_ , it still feels like Shiro _cannot breathe_. “I’m letting go, then can you please go get my Xanax from the kitchen?”

Lance bolts as soon as Shiro separates their hands. Ryou nudges around the coffee-table and in a calm, even voice, tells Shiro he’s taking the mug away now. Once it’s out of the way, he tells Shiro they’re going to get his leg down. They do, and Shiro lets himself fall forward, tugging his hands back through the fringe he left out of his ponytail. He knots his fingers up in his hair and yanks. He knows better than to do this — pulling his own hair is self-harm every bit as much as cutting or punching bricks or smacking his head against the wall or clawing at his own skin; he’s letting everyone down all over again like this, like he _**always** does_ — but the pain is something **_real_**. The pain is happening right here, right now, and Maurice is _**not**_. He isn’t crowding in on Shiro’s back again, demanding to know where he’d been, telling him what a _headache_ it was to keep up with him — _no, stop it, that’s not happening, it isn’t_ — Shiro twists his fingers up so hard, he makes himself wince—

“I’m going to put my hands on yours, okay?” Ryou says, waiting for Shiro’s nod before he does it. “See? I’m here. My hands are on yours. This is what’s happening. _This_ is real, and you’re safe. I’m not letting anything happen to you.”

“You can’t _promise_ that!” leaps out of Shiro’s throat without his complete consent, sounding high-pitched and strangled.

“Not completely, no. But right here, right now?” Ryou squeezes his hands again. “Right here and right now, I’m here, and I love you, and I’m going to keep you safe. Can you _please_ let go of your hair?”

Shiro nods again, but still, he doesn’t unknot his fingers ’til Lance gets back and cracks opens the bottle of little orange pills.

*** * ***

The number one worst thing about panic attacks is that they ever happen to literally anybody. This fact is unfair, and completely horrible, and simply should not be the way the world works. If Shiro ever got three wishes from a genie, he would use one of them to make panic attacks stop being a Thing that is allowed to happen.

The second-worst thing about panic attacks is that they’re debasing and humiliating, even when they happen around two other people, both of whom love you unconditionally, want what’s best for you, already know that you have panic attacks, and have witnessed several of them before. They’re proof that you can’t control your own mind, proof that maybe things haven’t been going as well for you as you’ve wanted to believe, and proof that there is something weak and broken in you that can reduce you to a non-functioning mess at a moment’s notice. Anyway, they feel like that, no matter how many times anyone ever tells Shiro that he isn’t weak or broken because he has panic attacks.

The third-worst thing about panic attacks, at least in Shiro’s opinion, is the aftermath. If he gets through one without his Xanax, he’s still going to be a bit on-edge, unless it tired him out enough that he can’t stay awake. If he reaches for the meds, though, he may not be quite so exhausted, but things get kind of fuzzy around the edges for the rest of the day. Sometimes more, sometimes less — but nevertheless, fuzzy.

That’s where Shiro’s at as he drinks his tea and Ryou skips back through the scenes of _Aladdin_ , on account of how they spent the majority of the movie talking about depressing history, only to cap it off with a panic attack. He’s fuzzy and only not trying to pretend he isn’t because that would take more energy than Shiro wants to invest right now.

In the interests of aftercare, Lance tries calling and texting Matt, Pidge, and Hunk about borrowing Rover for a while, because it’s no secret that Rover loves spoiling Shiro with affection almost as much as Shiro loves spoiling him with treats and long walks and squeaky toys. But none of them get back to Lance in a timely manner, so he fetches the black lion from Shiro’s room. Shiro spends most of the movie with his head in Lance’s lap and Lance’s fingers carding through his hair, not exactly dozing but only able to hum along when the time comes for, “A Whole New World.” Ryou covers for him, though, so Lance still gets to have his song.

Shiro stays in Lance’s lap for a good part of _Hercules_ , too, because even when Shiro starts feeling like he could stand to sit up, he’s quite comfortable down here, thanks. Ultimately, he only rouses because, “(I Won’t Say) I’m In Love” is coming up, and Lance knows Shiro will just make them rewind it for a singalong if they don’t get it done on today’s first watch-through. After the song, Shiro stretches out and rubs his eyes. He briefly excuses himself to take a leak, brush his teeth (unnecessarily, maybe, but it makes him wake up a bit more and makes him feel better in general), and grab a Diet Coke from the fridge. When he gets back, he finds Ryou and Lance peering not at the TV, but at his phone, sitting on the coffee-table.

“Keith texted,” Lance explains without any judgment. “He sent two right on top of each other. We didn’t read them, just… We wanted to see if he’d send any more, y’know?”

Rolling his eyes feels like an appropriate response, but Shiro doesn’t do it. Instead, he flops back into place on the sofa, and as Disney’s Hades goes to loose the so-called Titans upon the world, checks out the messages.

_Keith ❤️, 4:45 PM: Hey, are you doing anything for lunch tomorrow? I think we owe each other a talk, and I owe you a couple dozen apologies._

_Keith ❤️, 4:46 PM: Sorry for texting so late in the day. I get it if you already have plans._

As Shiro’s trying to figure out what to say, his phone jingles and a new text pops up:

_Keith ❤️, 4:49 PM: I didn’t text because I don’t want to talk or anything. I meant to get to you sooner, but I’ve been hungover and catching up on sleep all day._

The texts all sound like Keith (and after last night, him being hungover makes sense), but Shiro still hands his phone off to Ryou, then to Lance. No, Shiro wants to believe this, but he can’t. Not until Lance and Ryou confirm that the texts are exactly as Shiro read them.

“I’d say that this directly challenges the idea that he hates you?” Ryou offers hopefully, giving Shiro a smile that practically begs him to please join in.

“You didn’t see him last night, though,” Shiro points out, slouching against the armrest on his side of the couch. “He was wound so tight while we were talking before the show—”

“Hey, man, didn’t you tell me that he doesn’t usually _like_ going to bars?” Lance toes at Shiro’s thigh. “Maybe he was on-edge because that’s really not his scene? Or maybe it was that you two haven’t seen each other in a while?”

That’s actually a pretty decent point. But at the same time? “He went _non-verbal_ for a hot minute after he saw my sobriety chip.”

“I mean — I don’t want to be harsh or anything, Kashi? And I swear to God that I’m only saying this because I love you?” Ryou is trying so hard not to sigh that Shiro feels sympathetic exasperation. “But the last time he saw you for any decent amount of time, you _were_ probably drunk, high, or both. Even if you weren’t, sobriety’s still a pretty big thing to drop on someone? Especially when he was there for you being really, really not-sober?”

“I _know_ , but like…” Jeez, why are Lance and Ryou making such good arguments right now? Huffing, Shiro rubs at the bridge of his nose and his scar, in the hopes of waking himself up a bit more. “He had to get wasted to even be _around_ me, okay? How is that _not_ a sign that he _hates_ me?”

“Uh, because _Lotor_ was involved, okay?” Lance rolls his eyes and looks like he’s suggesting this begrudgingly, at best. But he still says, “Look, there _were_ a good few Jack-and-Cokes on our bar tab, and he would’ve gotten drunk off that, easy. But Ricki said he mostly spaced those out and tried to drink some water. She said he started hitting them harder when your dick-bag ex tried to hit on him, _then_ Lotor fed him four shots of his bullshit, pretentious-ass Patrón. I’m just saying? If Lotor ever tried to hit on me, I’d be getting shit-faced, too.”

“And considering how many of your slips off the wagon ever somehow involved Lotor?” says Ryou, a bit over-gingerly. “Considering how you told him _to his face_ that you had to pick between your sobriety and being with him? I don’t think you can really argue against Lance, here.”

“I _know_ I can’t,” Shiro says with a huff, trying to ignore the endearingly smug little smile Lance is getting over the fact that he’s gotten Ryou to agree with him multiple times in one day. After thinking for moment, he yawns and slumps against the back of the sofa. “Can one of you take dictation, please? I _really_ don’t want to learn if my Xanax-texting is anything like my drunk-texting.”

Lance volunteers, though he insists that it’s just because he’s sitting on the sofa, which makes it easier for Shiro to make sure the texts are typed out how he wants them. As they go back and forth with Keith, it seems more and more likely that Ryou and Lance are right, that the situation is distinctly more than, “Facebook complicated,” and some wires might’ve gotten crossed but at least Keith doesn’t hate Shiro. They agree to grab lunch after Keith has some meeting with his advisor out at school, and then they’ll have the talk they were supposed to have last night. Personally, Shiro’s not sure how good an idea it is to have a conversation like that right after seeing your advisor, but if Keith thinks that he’ll be fine, Shiro should respect that.

Besides, it might be selfish, but Shiro wants to see Keith so badly, he can feel it through the Xanax-haze as if he hadn’t taken his meds at all.

When _Lilo and Stitch_ winds down, Ryou means to stick around for dinner and _The Great Mouse Detective_ , but he hasn’t heard a peep from Slav since breakfast. As much as Shiro doesn’t like his brother’s best friend and roommate, he can’t deny that it’s better for Ryou to go make sure Slav hasn’t gotten totally lost in one of his dry-erase boards or giant notepads full of borderline-incomprehensible notes about alternate realities, causality, parallel timelines, advanced string theory, and a ton of other things that Shiro prefers to keep exclusively in science-fiction. Either way, Ryou kisses Shiro’s forehead before making his exit, and as always, he reminds Shiro to call or text if he needs absolutely anything, because that’s what brothers are for.

Not two minutes later, Hunk finally texts Lance back. Apparently, Pidge’s project wound up dragging him and Matt and Rover out all over town, and all the humans got so wrapped up in whatever Pidge had them doing that they forgot to check their phones all day. Basil of Baker Street is busting himself, Dr. Dawson, and Olivia Flaversham out of the nefarious Professor Ratigan’s trap when Hunk finally gets home, holding Rover’s leash in one hand and a bag of Lebanese takeout in the other.

“Matt and Pidge were gonna come, too,” he says, passing Lance his shawarma first. “But she spent most of the drive back curled up in the backseat using Rover as a dog-shaped pillow and started getting non-verbal when Matt woke her up to get her dinner order, then she was kinda clingy with him after we got the food and I had to finish getting us home? So, they’re staying upstairs. But Matt said he’ll be in touch if they need anything.”

Which is a promise that Shiro can trust because, out of all of them, Matt is easily the best at actually asking for help with anything, no matter what it is. In the meantime, though, Shiro has his fattoush with chicken, and a wide-eyed pit-mix mutt who puts his head on Shiro’s thigh and whines like he’s getting any of Shiro’s dinner. He probably could get a piece of the grilled chicken, under most circumstances, but after today’s events, Shiro doesn’t want to make Lance worry that he’s spoiling Rover to get out of eating things himself. He also doesn’t know, offhand, if there’s anything in the dressing that wouldn’t be good for dogs, and he isn’t gonna risk it.

As they watch _Atlantis_ (Hunk’s suggestion, because there is almost never a time when anyone in this apartment doesn’t want to watch a Disney movie), Shiro periodically looks in Lance’s direction, trying to check on how he’s doing. Asking would be easier, but could too easily make Lance feel like Shiro’s ignoring his own needs for his friends again, no matter how well Shiro thinks he’s balancing between the options. Maybe Lance is a little quiet, and more than once, Shiro catches glimpses of him sighing and getting moony-eyed over Hunk while Hunk’s too engrossed by the movie to notice. (Aside from that, the one time when he _does_ see Lance’s face looking like that, Hunk chuckles and asks if Lance’s Adderall is wearing off ‘cause he looks like he’s off in outer space or something.)

Still, it doesn’t seem like anything’s too badly off with Lance, not ’til they’ve all broken off to their bedrooms for the night. Like he’s done all day and in most situations that have come up since they met each other, Lance beats Shiro to the punch.

Shiro’s not ready to sleep yet, so he’s slouched against his headboard, reading his weathered, yellowed paperback of _Slaughterhouse Five_ for the umpteen-millionth time with Rover’s head in his lap. He can tell that something’s up not because Lance knocks, and not because he asks if Shiro feels up to talking for a second, but because Lance closes the door behind him. It’s not like Hunk has no idea that Shiro has issues. Having been at Lance’s side since they were kids, he also knows that Lance has his own problems and one of them is that he sometimes runs his mouth too much and/or pushes things when he really shouldn’t.

Best case scenario, if Lance doesn’t want Hunk to come in without knocking? Is that Lance wants the door closed so he can get hugs and whine into Shiro’s shoulder about how Hunk is so good, and so sweet, and so _freaking gorgeous_ but he doesn’t realize it and wouldn’t listen if Lance tried telling him because he keeps trying to tell Hunk so and getting nowhere, and why is Lance’s life coming straight out of the plot of a One Direction song. Shiro wouldn’t mind that, either. Romantic moping is better than everything else they’ve had to deal with today.

Instead, Lance hovers by the door and glances around the floor. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry?” he starts. “About earlier — I mean, I know you said you weren’t mad and I’m not saying you were, but—”

“I wasn’t and I’m not.” Shiro marks his page with the old _Magic: the Gathering_ card of Ryou’s that he’s been using as a bookmark since they were about thirteen. He sets his Vonnegut on the bedside table, by his speakers. “Yeah, you did push me too hard, but I know you have trouble with that sometimes, and you aren’t wrong about how I can keep things bottled up—”

“Hey, you got your turn to talk uninterrupted earlier, can you shut your beautiful mouth for a second and _please_ let have mine?”

Although he’s in the right to ask for that, Lance still blushes. Even when Shiro gives him the go-ahead and promises to stay quiet, it takes him a moment to recover. Hopefully, he spends most of it trying to get his train of thought back on track, rather than doubting himself or any of the other increasingly worse options. Gently dragging his hands back through his hair, Lance sighs.

“I’m sorry that I pushed you so hard,” he says, his voice devoid of any levity. “I’m sorry that I didn’t back off when Ryou told me to, or pay attention to everything you said that was telling me to drop it, I just? I was worried about you, yeah, but it’s also that I don’t like Keith, and I felt like I was right and my reasons were totally legit, but that’s no excuse for making you feel like you had to open up if you weren’t ready, and it’s like?”

Taking a deep breath, Lance slouches like he wants to hug himself. Instead, he loops his thumbs over the waistband of his boxers like he’d do with belt-loops if he were wearing jeans. “But more than that, I just… Like? I know we’re not supposed to invalidate each other’s feelings? And I’m not trying to say it’s wrong for you to feel bad sometimes because it’s _not_? But I _do_ kind of want to invalidate _one_ of your feelings right now, I guess, because I know you were getting into a panic attack and it wasn’t really you talking, not exactly, but I can’t just let this go because…”

He sighs again and looks Shiro dead in the eye as he says, “You _are not_ a black hole, okay? I get that you feel that way, and feeling like it isn’t the same as acting on those feelings, but I really, really wish you _didn’t_ feel like that, because you’re _not_ , and it’s just…”

Lance likely only trails off because Shiro budges over (muttering an apology to Rover for making him move) and motions for him to come sit on the bed. Rover sighs and stands up. As Lance joins Shiro, Rover putters around in a few circles before flopping down again, curling up with his slightly over-chewed stuffed bunny with the defunct squeaker in its belly. Dropping his hands into his lap, Lance twists his fingers around each other. It makes Shiro want to say _something_ , but Lance kept his promise to be quiet earlier, and giving Lance the same courtesy now is the least that Shiro can do.

After a few moments, Lance nudges his shoulder into Shiro’s, but keeps focusing on his hands while telling him, “You’re one of my best friends, okay, man? I hate knowing you feel that way and feeling like I can’t do anything, ‘cause it’s like, that’s what friends do, right? And yeah, I _get_ that I can’t magically make it all go away for you, but for what it’s worth? Which probably isn’t much, but I…”

Lance looks up with a wobbly smile, and Shiro isn’t sure if it’s earnest or unconvincing. He doesn’t entirely look like he’s trying to fake being happy — he almost looks like he’s begging — but Lance’s expression is still mixed up and uncharacteristically hard to read.

“It’s not just that you’re one of the coolest people I’ve ever met, either? I mean, you are — you’re also a _huge_ dork, but I’d never change that about you because I love it — but like…” Another nudge of shoulder into shoulder and, blushing, Lance drops his gaze again. “Black holes used to be stars, but now they don’t give off any light, right? All they can do is suck in everything that gets too close and destroy it. And maybe I didn’t meet you ’til after you’d already gone through it with Maurice, and lost your parents, and been to rehab, so I don’t know what you used to be like? But the Shiro I know is pretty amazing. Like, you’re smart, and creative, and sweet, and yeah, you have problems, but who here doesn’t, and I don’t know about anybody else, but I have fun with you…”

Shiro tries to squeeze Lance’s hand by way of saying that he doesn’t have to keep going, but all it does is encourage him: “But you know how I _really_ know you’re not a black hole, _hermano_?” he says, only pausing so he can look Shiro in the eye again. “It’s because you give me _hope_ , man. Everything you’ve been through, like? So much of it has sucked so hard, I wouldn’t even wish it on _Lotor_ or his freak-show parents, but you _did_ get through it. You’re still here, and you keep going, and it’s always a work in progress but you don’t give up, not even when you feel like you want to? And no, you’re not perfect, but you don’t have to be — you’d be _boring_ and irritating as _fuck_ if you were perfect — and I don’t know, but for what it’s worth?”

Lacing his fingers up with Shiro’s again, Lance gives him a genuine smile, if a small one. “Whatever you feel like or however much you hate yourself? You’re like family to me, Shirito, and whatever’s happened before or whatever might happen later? I’d rather have you in my life than not.”

His cheeks flush. He ducks his chin. “But I’m done talking now, if you want to tell me I’m a total loser or something,” Lance mumbles, balling up a hand in Shiro’s bedsheets.

Shiro doesn’t say anything until he’s tugged Lance closer and scooped him up into a hug. With Lance clinging like a limpet, Shiro rubs his back and huffs fondly. “I love you too, Lancey-Lance,” he says as Lance burrows into his shoulder and trembles like he might cry. “There. If you’re a loser for saying it, then so am I and we can be losers together, okay?”

Lance snickers rather than laughing properly, but it’s still a bit more than Shiro expected from him, at the moment. It’s a tight fit, trying to share the bed between both of them and Rover, but once they’ve both had a good cry, Lance doesn’t want to sleep alone. On top of being tired, he’s too loyal to feel good about leaving Shiro by himself after a day like this. So, he nods off snuggled up to Shiro’s chest, and come morning, Shiro can’t deny that having company let him have a better night.

*** * ***

As far as Monday mornings go, Shiro’s starts off like it should go okay. Hunk’s in the mood to stress-cook, so Shiro gets an egg sandwich for breakfast; he only doesn’t get a packed lunch like Lance because he shows Hunk last night’s texts about his plans with Keith. Reading them over, Hunk narrows his eyes a bit suspiciously, and says that he guesses that’s an okay reason not to make Shiro lunch, but he’d still feel better if he _knew for sure_ that Shiro’s going to eat okay. At least Hunk calms down when Shiro bites into an apple, puts another in his jacket pocket, and offers to fill Hunk in about lunch later.

“Nah, you don’t have to do that,” Hunk decides. “I get that trust’s important, and I _do_ trust you? I just worry about you too, is all? But I mean, I worry about _everybody_ , so that’s on me, not you. So, you take care of yourself, and I’ll see you for dinner and practice later, right?”

Shiro confirms that with a smile and a fist-bump, but Hunk still insists on hugs before letting him leave. Not that Shiro objects. There is almost never a wrong time for getting wrapped up in a warm, soft Hunk Hug™.

On his walk up to the bookshop, Shiro considers stopping at the gym, even though he’ll be meeting Matt there later, when they’re both off work. But he doesn’t, and two blocks later, he finds a twenty-dollar bill when he stops to pick up some trash that someone dropped on the sidewalk so none of the neighborhood strays can try to eat it. Somebody’s been putting shit like razor blades and rat poison in garbage that the homeless dogs and cats around here get into, so Shiro expected to get hurt. Just in case, he breaks out the hand sanitizer once he pockets the money. Usually, he only keeps it around for Hunk and Matt, but it’s nice to have for situations like this, too.

Yeah, everything’s going shockingly well for a Monday — until Shiro rounds his last corner and sees the too-familiar purple ponytail bouncing as its wearer paces around outside the shop.

“You’d best get out of here before Mr. Phalen shows up,” Shiro says, heading to unlock the door and hoping that Lotor might make a decent life choice for once. “If he or his husband see you, they _will_ call the cops again.”

“The police do not intimidate me. Neither do your dumpy boss and his irksome paramour, for that matter.”

As if he’s trying to prove something that literally no one asked about, Lotor follows Shiro inside. For once, though, he stays on the proper side of the counter while Shiro flicks on the lights, checks the cash register and the card-reader, finds the next empty page in the receipt book. He folds his arms over the Ultraviolents’ logo printed on his chest, but doesn’t seem terribly impatient as he pretends to survey the over-loaded, sort of messy stacks. While Shiro tries to focus on setting things up for the day, Lotor pipes up from down one aisle to point out that there’s a Norton Critical edition of _The Picture of Dorian Gray_ shelved as a memoir.

“Oh, yeah, I put that there.” Shiro shrugs, and says a silent prayer of thanks that, for all of his boss’s admittedly strange habits, at least Mr. Phalen keeps the receipts organized in a way that makes sense to other humans. He can’t say the same for the books — every time Mr. Phalen’s ever tried to explain his system, Shiro’s wound up with a dull, throbbing headache and hasn’t come out with any deeper understanding of how it’s supposed to work — but at least working here lets him amuse himself.

“You _do_ realize that Saint Oscar was being non-literal, right?” The arch of his eyebrow is evident in Lotor’s voice, but Shiro’s heard him do that too many times to find it impressive anymore. “When he told Ralph Payne that Basil Hallward is what he thought he was, Lord Henry is what the world thought of him, and Dorian is what he wanted to be himself?”

Shiro rolls his eyes, and even if Lotor were looking at him, he doesn’t think he’d mind. If Lotor isn’t going to make himself scarce, then he could at least refrain from calling Oscar Wilde a saint while Shiro’s in his shirt that says, _“The Church of St. George”_ under a print of George Michael wearing the iconic leather jacket and aviators he wore for the “Faith” video. It’s probably unreasonable to get possessive of things like, “calling people you personally admire saints when the Catholic Church would almost definitely take issue with that,” but if Lotor isn’t going to give Shiro the very reasonable wish of getting lost, then Shiro’s allowed to be a bit unreasonable.

Still, he says nothing until Lotor swoops back over to the counter and reminds Shiro that he asked a question. “I realize what Oscar meant,” Shiro tells him, since it’s easier to deal with this than to call Lotor out and get absolutely nowhere. “I put the book there for personal reasons.”

“Oh, ha ha _ha_ ,” Lotor sneers, idly rotating one wrist in agitation, exactly like his Mother does when she’s had a few too many vodka-rocks. “That is a terribly amusing joke at my expense, isn’t it? _Very_ clever, Takashi.”

“Actually, I put it there to make fun of _myself_.” It would feel so satisfying to accuse Lotor of making everything in the world about himself, but as Shiro looks up at his ex and sighs, he reminds himself that, no matter how right he is, the satisfaction wouldn’t last. “At my Tuesday night A.A. last week, I opened up about some things that made me feel that I’d been a bit like Dorian Gray. When that needed to get shelved on Wednesday, I put it with the memoirs because I thought it was funny.”

“I find it very difficult to believe that you have ever in your life resembled Dorian Gray.” Briefly, Lotor seems to think about something, and Shiro gets ready for a tacky attempt to get back in his pants. But Lotor’s voice is oddly heavy and for once, he sounds sincere when he tacks on, “True, you have your own flaws, but about the only thing that you and Dorian Gray have in common is your unique and exceptional physical beauty. Unlike him, you understand concepts such as kindness. Also, patience.”

_Which is so much the better for you, because I would throw you out of here if I didn’t_ , Shiro can’t help thinking as he tries not to narrow his eyes at Lotor’s clear skin, the absence of a smirk anywhere on his face, and the long bit of fringe that Lance and Pidge will probably never stop comparing to Sephiroth from _Final Fantasy VII_.

The exasperation gets stuck in Shiro’s throat before he can say anything like that, though. Whether or not Lotor is trying to look like a cat who’s been stuck out in the rain and desperately wants to come inside (whether or not he’s even completely conscious of his intentions at the moment), he’s certainly giving Shiro that impression. From his slight slouch to his pout, from how hard it is for him to look at Shiro, to the way he hugs himself while trying to act like he isn’t doing so — it all reminds Shiro of how Lotor looked after introducing Shiro to his parents for the first time, and how he looked when they accused him of faking hospitalization-worthy pneumonia to get out of going to some cousin’s wedding, and how he looked after most phone calls with his Mother that Shiro ever witnessed.

Sighing, Shiro has to loop his thumbs through his belt-loops like Lance to keep himself from reaching out to brush Lotor’s hair off his face or squeeze his elbow like they used to do. It feels cold, but there’s too much chance of Lotor misreading any physical affection — whether deliberately or not — and taking it as indication that Shiro doesn’t really mean it when he says they’re over. Still, he doesn’t have it in him to be harsh when Lotor looks like this.

“You’ve probably got half-an-hour to forty-five minutes ’til Mr. Phalen gets in. More if they’re taking a long breakfast.” Shiro tries to slouch a bit himself. He and Lotor might be close in height, but Lotor can still get _fussy_ with other tall people, and considering his Father, Shiro kind of understands why. “Look, can I help you with something?”

“Not with anything related to books. Which I suppose means that you are under no obligation to do so.” He’s trying to sound like everything right now is normal and he’s exactly as arrogant as he tends to act. If he’d put concealer on the faint, bruise-purple rings below his eyes, it might even be half-convincing. But as it stands, Lotor’s quickly going from dejected rainstorm cat to, _“You are over six feet tall and turning 29 next month, so where exactly do you get off looking like a lost kid at a shopping mall?”_

Forcing himself to look at Shiro, he sighs and sounds like he could fall asleep on a sofa without complaining about it failing to meet his standards. “I apologize if you feel that I am making a nuisance of myself,” he says. “I had time to kill before an appointment of some significance. However, both Acxa and Zethrid had to go into work early, Narti went to visit family for the weekend and won’t return until later, and over breakfast, everything that I normally adore about Ezor was making me want to stab myself in the eye with a salad fork, I could barely eat anything, so…”

He shrugs, and with a significant amount of guilt, Shiro brushes aside the thought of Lance crowing, _“Oh Jesus, can you calm down and stop trying to out-Goth Mary Shelley.”_ He doesn’t point out that, _“I’m sorry you feel that way”_ isn’t actually an apology, no matter how good your diction and vocabulary are (sadly, it is a legitimate improvement), or that coming to see the ex who dumped you in the name of his own sobriety is not one of Lotor’s better ideas. Lotor’s used more than his fair share of sympathy ploys to get his way from Shiro before, but this doesn’t seem to be one of them.

“Well, lucky for you, I had a decent breakfast with Hunk,” he says, polishing the second apple on his shirt before handing it over. “You’ll feel better after you eat. And if your Father’s upset with you again, you won’t want to deal with that on empty stomach.”

Lotor frowns at the apple and sniffs it like he’s making sure it isn’t poisoned. He mumbles a, _“Thank you”_ but doesn’t take a bite just yet. “My Father, however, is currently pretending that I do not exist. I am not in this part of town to visit with my Mother, either.” He huffs and gives Shiro another dead tired, nearly expressionless look. “I have my first appointment with a therapist today.”

Oh.

Well. That certainly is……

God, Shiro could kick himself for the way he’s gaping, but at the same time… “Oh, wow. I — I’m sorry? That wasn’t something… that I expected?”

Wished for, yes. Thought was a good idea, for sure. Expected Lotor to go along with, though? Not even a little.

“You are not alone in that. I did not expect this turn of events, either,” Lotor says. “…Well. Rather, I knew that the appointment loomed on the horizon, but still had not entirely reconciled myself to its inevitability. Then, Acxa told me that she would withdraw us from Battle of the Bands if I didn’t go, so I planned to show up with a typical level of flair and spend the entire session lying. And yet, here I find myself…”

“Speaking from experience? That is a terrible idea, and your therapist will probably be able to tell.” At least, the one Aunt Satomi forced on Shiro for a while only ever humored him by pretending to believe it when he lied about everything. But Lotor didn’t ask for advice or personal anecdotes, so Shiro adds on, “Look, it’s alright if you feel nervous about this, or hesitant, or like there isn’t any real point. Most people do, even if their families _aren’t_ as anti-therapy as yours. But it’ll be okay. Therapy can help out a lot, if you let it.”

“So the ladies have all told me, as well. Or seemed to indicate to me by leaning on my shoulder because Narti did not feel like speaking, at that particular moment.” He takes a bite of the apple before telling Shiro, “Anyway, thank you for humoring me. I simply wanted to hear someone else tell me that this wouldn’t end in disownment, dismemberment, or similar disaster.”

Considering Dean Zarkon and Honerva, disownment might be the best thing that ever happened to Lotor — but Shiro knows better than to say a thing like that, especially right now. He also knows that he can’t just let Lotor look the way he does without _some_ kind of physical reassurance. At the risk of Lotor getting the wrong idea, Shiro sighs and rubs his upper arm. Lotor doesn’t lean into the contact, but he nods by way of saying that it’s okay.

“Going to therapy is _not_ going to end in disaster, okay?” Shiro tells him. “I’m not gonna tell you that it’ll be easy, because it definitely won’t be. But it helps, and you’re strong. You’ve got this.”

Lotor nods again, but can’t look at Shiro as he asks, “Was it really all bad, between us? We never had _any_ good times together? Is that what you used to talk to your therapist about?”

Sighing, Shiro pulls his hand back and folds his arms over his chest. He stops slouching. “Actually, I spend most of my sessions with Ulaz talking about _myself_ , my feelings and the problems that I have, personally. Sometimes, yes, you come up with him. But the point of therapy isn’t to talk about other people. It’s to focus on _you_.”

“I was under the impression focusing on myself too much was part of the _problem_ , or so holds general consensus.” He looks up at Shiro, but doesn’t look any less like he’s sulking. “You didn’t answer my other questions.”

“I’ve told you how I feel before. I don’t feel like dedicating a cover of, ‘We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together’ to you was _subtle_.” Shiro rolls out his shoulders, trying to stand up straighter, because maybe, it’ll help him get his point across. “I loved you. We had good times. That’s why it was so hard for me to stay away from you, to even dump you in the first place—”

“But you _did_ still dump me—”

“Yes, I did. Because what we had together wasn’t healthy.” He takes a deep breath, and struggles not to sigh. “Lotor, the fact that I dumped you does not mean that everything was terrible between us. But the good times we had don’t erase everything _else_ that we did to each other, either. I don’t _like_ the Shiro who I turn into when we’re together. I don’t like feeling how—”

“Am I making you want to drink right now?” Lotor bites into the apple again. “That’s what you said, isn’t it? That I make you want to crawl into a bottle of tequila and stay there indefinitely?”

Shiro hugs himself tighter. There’s no obvious way to answer this without upsetting both of them. So, Shiro goes for the truth, since it’s better to be upset about the truth than about a poorly-phrased lie: “You aren’t making me want that, not yet. But I would really like it if you left before it gets that bad.”

To Shiro’s surprise, Lotor nods and heads out of the shop without a fuss. But watching him sulk off down the sidewalk doesn’t feel like any kind of victory, regardless of how big a deal it might be Shiro stuck to his guns while Lotor was in such an obvious bad way.

He’s behind the counter when Mr. Phalen finally gets in, slouching over his sketchbook because there aren’t any customers to deal with, dashing off a red and purple mess, and trying to keep his breathing even and shake off the feeling nagging at him like claws the back of his neck. As if on cue, no doubt set up by some kind of psychic friendship link that science can’t possibly explain, Shiro’s phone jingles with a text:

_Lance , 9:33 AM: don’t forget to take your xanax if u need it today bonito ❤️_

All things considered, Lance is probably referring to the possibility of Keith stressing Shiro out like that. But going into lunch with him could make things get messy really easy. Taking a whole dose right now might knock Shiro effectively out of commission, but a half-dose or even a quarter-dose might not be so bad. Still, Shiro has two-and-a-half hours yet, and he needs to ponder all the pros and cons before letting himself decide.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are quite a few songs that get either referenced or name-dropped during this chapter, and in lieu of linking to the ones that aren’t from Disney movies, [I slapped together a Youtube version of Shiro’s so-called, “moping playlist.”](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLb6yAhbteybeRnTJ8nbiI0QgU11UPKAuE)
> 
> Since there are a couple Mountain Goats songs on said playlist, though: Lance was specifically referring to, “Dilaudid” when he mentioned a song that Ryou isn’t keen on his big brother listening to. (Shiro isn’t keen on the whole big brother/little brother nonsense when he is literally only seven minutes older than Ryou, but that’s neither here nor there.)
> 
> Additions to the running list of characters who’ve been referenced so far:
> 
>   * Slav is Ryou’s best friend and roommate, who is kind of obsessed with alternate realities and string theory and parallel timelines and so on. Shiro is really not a fan;
>   * Haxus was Maurice’s [Sendak’s] partner back in Chicago, and a Dr. Feelgood who abused his medical license to hook Shiro up with opiates, as long as he “behaved” (i.e., toed Maurice’s lines exactly);
>   * Dean Zarkon and Honerva are Real Pieces Of Work on a level that makes their son’s Real Piece Of Work status look like kid stuff;
>   * Robin, Shiro’s sponsor, is this AU’s version of the grey spindly alien who first called Shiro, “Champion” (who does apparently have a semi-canon name, but I didn’t learn that until I’d already picked, “Robin” because I was watching _Aladdin_ and missing Robin Williams);
>   * Trevor, Shiro’s friend from Columbia College Chicago who crashed his father’s Porsche, is a complete OC and much like Mark, he is the narrative equivalent of a moderately interesting lamp;
>   * and Lotor’s therapist doesn’t have a name or personality yet, but oh man, they are about to deal with A Lot.
> 

> 
> Also, this is the series of emojis that Shiro sent to Ryou:  
> 
> 
> Finally, I am not saying that Shiro’s boss is actually Aziraphale of _Good Omens_ , but I’m also not NOT-saying that, if you know what I mean.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, if you feel any compulsion to scream, “Keith, you fucking idiot” at any point in this chapter, you have my absolute and unconditional blessing to do so. You may or may not feel that impulse, considering certain pieces of what happens and how I still don’t know you or your life, but in the event that you _do_ want to scream that? Please, feel free.
> 
> I mean, I know where I would personally draw my line of, “Okay, I’m done yelling at Keith for now,” but you can draw yours wherever you want. It’s cool.

_[7:29 PM]: Not going quiet on purpose or anything, Hunk just got home with dinner_

_[7:30 PM]: Then you should go quiet on purpose. Dinner’s important._  
_[7:31 PM]: I should probably heat up mine too_

_[7:33 PM]: Yeah, you should ❤️_  
_[7:34 PM]: It’s important right?_

_[7:35 PM]: Yeah, so quit texting me about it and go eat yours_  
_[7:36 PM]: Imagine me making a stern face at you._

_[7:37 PM]: Hunk’s still taking it out of the bag!_  
_[7:37 PM]: He brought Rover home with him too_

_[7:38 PM]: Oh so he has his hands full, got it_

_[7:39 PM]: Your hands could be full too if you wanted lol_  
_[7:40 PM]: Sorry that was inappropriate wasn’t it ❤️_

_[7:40 PM]: Imagine me making a VERY stern face at you._

_[7:41 PM]: Hmm, nah, can’t see it_  
_[7:42 PM]: What I’m picturing looks too cute_  
_[7:42 PM]: You’ll have to show me tomorrow_

_[7:43 PM]: You probably aren’t wrong, much as I’d like you to be._  
_[7:45 PM]: Not that I want to be cruel or anything_  
_[7:46 PM]: You’re still a huge nerd, though_  
_[7:46 PM]: But I like that_  
_[7:51 PM]: Okay, you’re probably eating, and if you aren’t, I actually will make a stern face at you_  
_[7:55 PM]: Okay, I have dinner now too_  
_[7:58 PM]: Shit though, I’ve got some review to do for a midterm before I can sleep_  
_[7:59 PM]: But I’ll see you for lunch, okay?_

_[8:39 PM]: Can’t wait ❤️_

*** * ***

Come Monday morning, Keith meets Shay and Allura for coffee before class with Kolivan as though there’s nothing wrong.

He gets the same order that he always does — the largest cup of the blackest, most caffeinated brew that Java Hut is allowed to sell him — as though there’s nothing wrong, and listens to Allura complain about some post that Hira made on their Contemporary Ethics discussion board over the weekend that, according to her, was an obvious passive-aggressive dig at Allura. ( _“She’s exaggerating a little bit,”_ Shay texts him while Allura’s too wrapped up in her grousing to notice. _“But Hira was being pretty shitty. Even by Hira standards.”_ )

He picks his way through a raspberry scone for breakfast, not totally awake, but content to act as though there’s nothing wrong at all in his universe. If he can make himself believe it, then maybe his nerves will settle and he won’t feel like there’s something he can’t begin to fathom breathing cold and hard on the back of his neck. Hell, at this point? Keith would take it if he could simply pretend that he has no idea whatsoever why he can only pretend to be calm — or, “so exhausted that he’s effectively calm,” which is probably all that most people on campus are going to get for the next week.

But he keeps checking his phone, even though it’s only buzzed twice since he and Shiro stopped texting last night: when Shay texted him just now, and when Allura hit him up to say that they hit a snag in traffic and were running a few minutes late.

Partly, yes, he catches himself hoping that he missed something, somewhere. Perhaps he didn’t notice his phone buzzing on his commute because something had gone funny with the bus, or he missed it going off while he was on-line to get his coffee, or who knows, maybe there’s really magic in the world and staring at the texts will be like that old wives’ tales that his Mom’s aunt loved so much, about your ears burning when people talk about you behind your back. Maybe rereading them will make Shiro think about him and send Keith something, even if it’s small and stupid, like a dumb picture of Rover wearing a silly hat.

On the other hand, though, there’s Shay — or to be more accurate, there’s her and Allura both, and the way that they can be together. Begrudging his best friend her happiness would be shitty of him. Still, Keith feels _something_ like a conflict as Allura finishes going on about why Hira is The Absolute, Certifiable Worst, and drops her head onto Shay’s broad shoulder, nudging the top of her head and her silver hair against Shay’s soft, brown neck. Shay giggles, curling one finger under Allura’s chin, and nudges her up. The look they give each other should have little cartoon hearts drawn all around it, they’re so besotted. As though there’s nothing else in the world outside the two of them, they kiss without reservations. True, they aren’t shoving their tongues down each other’s throats like some of the freshmen do, but Keith blushes and ducks his chin, lets his hair drop over his face.

Something like this doesn’t need to be private, not when guys and girls do so much worse to each other in public spaces all the time. Even so, witnessing such a tender display of love and mutual affection makes Keith feel… A mix of things, he doesn’t rightly know. Cold, again, but not like he has a ghost breathing down the back of his neck — the sort of cold like he thought about taking a heavier jacket with him but the weather report said today wouldn’t be that bad. Jealous without intent or energy behind it. Empty like he’s gone three days without eating more than two single-serving bags of sour cream and onion chips, which were thanks to the guy who let him take a free shower at the Irving Park YMCA, and by now, the hunger feels almost like a friend.

Keith nearly smiles as he rereads his and Shiro’s last few texts. Except as his lips quirk up, he remembers that they don’t mean much of anything. They’re only words, and they’ll probably fall apart at lunch, because that is how things always go with Keith. As he, Allura, and Shay head across the quad to Montgomery Hall, Keith plays that one truth over and over in his mind. It’s like that bit from Yeats that Allura thinks he and Shay are morbid for even remotely liking: _Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold_ — the only constant in Keith’s life is that nothing lasts for him, and he can only fight to stay ahead of the storm which always manages to find him.

As they settle into their favorite spots in the tables arranged in an almost-circle, Allura squeezes Keith’s elbow. “You’ve been quiet,” she says with a small smile. “How did Saturday go?”

It occurs to Keith that he could try to lie, but so far, they’re the only ones in the classroom. Not even Kolivan is here yet. Plus, if he lied to Allura now, he’d have to keep his story straight. Flipping through his notebook for a blank page, he tells her, “You were right about me being too hard on his band. He didn’t think I’d actually show up. Then he told me that he’s a year sober, I got shit-faced anyway and he called me an Uber. Or a Lyft. Or whatever the one that’s okay to use is.”

Glancing over at her, he catches Allura blinking like she can’t believe what she just heard. On her other side, Shay cranes her neck and tilts her head curiously, and it could easily be either genuine interest on her part or emotional rubbernecking. Whichever one it is, Shay doesn’t make it clear. But he shrugs and slouches toward the table, propping himself up on his elbows.

“We were going to _talk_ before I fucked it up by getting wasted.”

“Talk about which part, though?” Allura wrinkles her nose, but not disapprovingly. It’s more pensive than anything, for all Keith can’t tell what sort of thinking she’s up to. “You could have meant to discuss his show, or politics, or…?”

“There wasn’t exactly a conversational itinerary, Princess, but…” He sighs. “Feelings, probably? Drunk Keith sure started babbling about feelings. But also about Shiro being stupid for not wearing a jacket, and how he smelled sweaty after playing so hard, and…”

Keith catches himself before he can mention anything about Shiro’s body or how it felt, wrapped up in Keith’s arms. No, he can’t out those issues of Shiro’s like that, not even to Allura. Bringing up that Shiro’s freshly sober was probably bad enough. There’s no way that Keith can bring up worrying that Shiro felt a bit thin without risk of having to clarify things like, _“Oh yeah, by the way, sometimes Mark used to call Shiro, ‘drunkorexic’ because sometimes, he was almost definitely consuming more calories from alcohol than food and he could tell you that he’d already eaten with a straight face while his stomach was growling so loudly that all the neighbors could probably hear it — but don’t worry, I think that he’s okay now, mostly.”_ None of that is Keith’s business to be telling anybody.

“—and about how he played a good show? But Drunk Keith also started rubbing on him like a cat in heat. So, take or leave it on whether or not you want to listen to him.”

Allura chuckles sympathetically, but mostly, it seems like she’s humoring him. “Drunk Keith certainly _can_ be affectionate.”

“But Sober Keith sounds like he’s pretty hung up on this guy, too,” Shay offers, and actually sounds like she wants to help. She also sounds like she doesn’t know _how_ , but that’s gonna be more on Keith than her. He doesn’t make it easy.

“Sober Keith doesn’t know how he feels,” he admits after a moment’s consideration. “Or anyway, Sober Keith feels a lot of things that don’t entirely agree with each other, and he’s really not a fan of this.”

_Sober Keith doesn’t think Shiro felt **that** thin in retrospect — actually, he seemed pretty healthy? Mostly, he was warm. I think I was just expecting him to feel bigger. But Sober Keith also thinks that Shiro’s stupid Dr. Pepper lip-chap probably still tastes terrible, but in like, a tolerable way? Sober Keith kinda wishes that Shiro had hugged him more while waiting for the Uber. But nominally, Sober Keith knows better than to expect literally anything to come of this, because why would it? And God, Sober Keith doesn’t care what Shiro’s mouth might taste like, all I want is to feel—_

He gasps as Allura squeezes his elbow again, a bit harder than before. The way she’s twisted up her face, she could be mad or worried or maybe kinda both. Keith’s not sure he wants to find out, but trying to brush it off and assure her that he’s fine, just a little bit tired after a more eventful weekend than he’s used to, only makes her pout at him that much harder. He shrinks in on himself a little, but if she wants to guilt-trip him for saying that he’s okay when that may not be entirely true, then Allura really isn’t putting that much effort into it.

“Your tired spacing out looks quite different from when you get wrapped up in your own thoughts,” she says, putting on her voice that’s trying to sound unshakably certain and only getting halfway there. “Something else happened, didn’t it?”

The subtext of, _“Admit it: you needed me to come with you after all”_ may not actually be there, but Keith feels like it is.

“Nothing _happened_ , not exactly, it’s just?” _A lot of old stuff got dredged up, but the evening itself only felt so hectic because it was happening to me. It’s not like anything of actual significance happened, right? You know what doesn’t matter a hill of beans in a world like this? Somebody totally losing his shit over a cute guy who he doesn’t deserve, or about said cute guy’s awful taste in lip-chap._

With a huff, Keith tugs a hand back through his hair and glances at the clock, then around the room. They’ve still got more than fifteen minutes ’til class starts, and almost none of the other students have shown up yet. Two of the three who have wear headphones while fiddling with their mp3 players. Kolivan’s not here, either, but he generally doesn’t get in until he’s ready to start teaching. The one time he did show up early, it was so he could make sure the overhead projector was working right in case he needed to call IT for help, and he asked if Allura, Keith, and Shay had absolutely nothing better to do than show up over twenty minutes early.

Dimly, Keith wonders how many of their classmates look at them, think they’re trying to suck up to Kolivan, and hate them for it.

“What happened was that Shiro and I texted last night,” he manages to say. _And we slipped into ribbing each other so easily, it was almost like he’d never disappeared. And it’s Hell, waiting for the other shoe to drop, because it’s going to, I know it. And I just — shit, right, getting wrapped up in my_ — Keith digs his nails into his palm and shakes his head. “I’m talking to Kolivan after class, then Shiro and I are getting lunch.”

“To Kolivan? Concerning what?” Allura might sound concerned or she might sound offended, but there’s an odd note of caution to it, whatever she’s feeling.

“Something important that isn’t bad, but this is literally all I know.” Keith means to sigh and ends up muffling a yawn in the back of his wrist. Trying to rouse himself a bit more, he jingles the keys, spare change, and miscellany accumulated in his jacket pocket — and shoots Allura a small smile as his fingers find his flash drives.

“Question, Princess. If I share something more about Shiro with you, will you believe that I’ve got everything handled?”

Allura’s eyes light up at that offer and Keith’s smile edges more into smirking territory. Although her pout is pensive, her sigh is so affected that it almost makes him snicker. Appealing to Allura’s curiosity almost always works, even when she may not be completely in the wrong for her concern.

“Perhaps I could see things that way,” she says. “It might depend on what you choose to share, exactly, but I _suppose_ that I can see the argument’s underlying logic…”

_Fair enough_ , Keith guesses. Even so, he doesn’t tell her what it’s going to be, only asks to borrow her laptop for a second. Not having his own computer is a serious pain in the ass, sometimes. One of the biggest nuisances has got to be how many flash drives Keith’s accumulated over the years, all in the name of not losing anything he’s worked on. Putting sticky labels on them helps, though, and fortunately, the one he wants is among the three he has in his pocket. It comes up as, “Marvin” when he plugs it into one of Allura’s USB ports, a relic from when Mark insisted that Keith read the _Hitchhiker’s Guide_ books while living with him and Shiro. Keith had seen the appeal, kind of, but they weren’t his favorites and the Paranoid Android was more than once the only reason why he kept reading through the end.

“Before I left Texas, I pawned the phone that my last set of foster parents had gotten me so I’d have some extra cash,” he explains. “Some dumbass I’d gone to school with gave me almost two hundred bucks for it, too.”

Clicking through Marvin’s folders, Keith grumbles and curses his terrible naming habits. Some have dates or usefully descriptive designations ( _“ebooks,” “scholarship application essays,” “dumb animal memes from shiro”_ ) but others have titles like, _“shark week”_ (which turns out to have old course catalogs from every school he looked at before coming here), and, _“dead tom’s dead long john shot him”_ (his old GED study materials), and, _“fuck off mark how would i even put porn on a flash drive this size”_ (mostly, it’s more of the dumb animal memes that Shiro used to love so much, but a few of its subfolders look promising).

“So, when I got out to Chicago, I didn’t have a phone at all. Which worked out okay for a while, but not once I started staying with Shiro and his old roommate. Neither of them ever remembered the number for their landline, and I didn’t remember their cell numbers but kept losing the post-its that they wrote them on…”

He shrugs as he catches Allura pointedly arching an eyebrow. “I never said that we had our shit together, okay? I only said I lived with them.”

“That was not entirely what I…” She huffs. “Regardless. You were saying?”

“Well, when Shiro and his brother lost their parents, they got enough money that they’d basically never need to work again. Not that either of them _wanted_ not to work again, they’re restless in that way? But it did mean that Shiro didn’t think anything of getting me a phone as an early Christmas present…”

Vaguely, Keith wonders if, _“Shiro’s parents are dead”_ does or doesn’t fall into the same category as, _“Mark used to call Shiro, ‘drunkorexic’ and not without good reason”_ on the scale of things that are not Keith’s business to be telling anybody, not even someone he trusts and her girlfriend, who is safer than most people could ever hope to be. But before he can dwell on it for too long, he finds the folder that he’s looking for (though he has to wonder why he titled it, _“stephen king sex tape with stevie nicks”_ ). Now, to find the exact right files…

“Anyway, I wound up pawning that phone too, before I left to come out here. But not before getting Mark to help me back it up, just in case…”

At least the backup has straightforward names for everything, so Keith finds the old photos right where they should be, in the folder that is labeled, _“Photos.”_ Fortunately for his idea, most of them are of the right subject, too. The first one that Keith double-clicks on is a picture of Shiro in his hot pink Blondie tank-top, hanging upside down off the old futon, with his long legs draped over the back and one of them kicking up. His hair is still all-black, and he somehow looks both younger and older than he looked on Saturday night. He’s laughing at something and his face is flushed such a pretty strawberry shade — but God, in light of Shiro’s new sobriety, finding the picture adorable makes Keith heart sink to the pit of his stomach.

Still, he keeps his face neutral as he slides the laptop back to Allura and tries to keep his voice as even as possible while telling her, “That’s probably from the first night I had my new phone. We watched _Labyrinth_ and played a drinking game.” With a shrug, Keith adds, “Click through the rest of them, if you want.”

Of course, Allura does. With Keith’s go-ahead, Shay leans closer to take a gander as well. The next one that they open shows Shiro sitting on his bed, wearing his, _“Frankie Says Relax”_ t-shirt with his old acoustic guitar flat in his lap and his hair flopping over his forehead. He’s scribbling something, but Keith can’t tell if it’s in the notebook where he wrote his lyrics or the one that was lined so he could take down the musical notes. The section of wall in the picture has his old pin-board full of concert tickets and his Against Me! poster hanging there. Out the window, it looks like it might’ve been snowing.

“Huh, is that the _Black Crosses_ album art?” says Shay.

“Yeah, think so, he really liked the acoustic version of that something, something, teenage anarchist song.” _Play it cool_ , Keith tells himself and forces a shrug because as far as Shay’s concerned, this isn’t serious and it never has been.

She purses her lips as if to tell him how transparent he is right now. “Well, he has good taste in music.”

“His inner Ricky Martin fanboy came out _hardcore_ after a couple appletinis,” Keith points out, folding his hands on the table in front of him. “And he was _not_ wearing that shirt ironically.”

Shay hums and declares that, as far as she’s concerned, Shiro still has good taste in music, while Allura clicks through to find the next picture she wants to look at. When she pulls up a selfie of them at Navy Pier, with the old Ferris wheel in the background, Keith can’t help smirking a bit. For one thing, it’s such a predictable choice for Allura and her secretly sentimental streak. For another, Shiro looks like such a dweeb in the picture, grinning so hard his face might break with one arm roping Keith into the picture and the other reaching out-of-shot with the phone.

“He insisted on dragging me there. Said I had to go at least once.”

“You two look absolutely _precious_.” Allura has that sparkly-eyed look of hers, like it’s taking an incredible amount of effort not to go, _“Awwww”_ at the photo. “Though the short hair makes you look… very different.”

“Diplomatic word choice, Princess.” Regardless, Keith smiles.

Never one to half-ass something once she’s interested, Allura keeps clicking through the photos, even when Shay decides to review her notes, even when Keith runs to take a leak and grab a Coke from the vending machine. Upon his return, she’s looking at a shot of him and Shiro slumped against the futon while Shiro holds a joint and blows the smoke from it into Keith’s mouth. ( _“Trying to smoke it on my own went badly,”_ Keith tells her. _“It was easier to handle when we shot-gunned. I think Mark probably took that picture, then fucked off when we started making out.”_ )

By the time Kolivan shows up, Allura’s whispering at Keith about how pale and fragile Shiro looks in a picture Keith took on the sly while Shiro was shelving books at work. ( _“Yeah, he’d been having a rough time of things around then,”_ is at best an understatement, but at least it answers her unspoken questions without letting too much slip.) The last one that she pulls up before class starts is of Keith holding his cupcake and rolling his eyes while Shiro grins and nuzzles at his cheek. ( _“My 19th birthday,”_ Keith mutters to her. _“He was probably on a couple Percocets right then. Or maybe Oxycontin. I don’t remember which.”_ )

As Kolivan clears his throat to call the class to attention, Allura ejects the flash drive. As he asks how everyone is doing on their essays, she borrows Keith notebook and prints out a message in her purple pen: _“Lunch is going to go okay. You will be perfectly fine. Just relax and let yourself have fun with him, alright?”_

*** * ***

Waiting for Kolivan to be ready after class could be nerve-wracking, but only two people have any questions for him and both get cleared up quickly. He jerks his head on the way out to the corridor and Keith follows to the crowded elevator, then up to the twelfth floor and through the labyrinth of twisting back-hallways until they get to Kolivan’s office. Careful not to upset the painted papier-mâché sculpture of Edgar Allan Poe (which is part of some old inside joke with Thace and Antok that Keith knows better than to ask about), Keith drops his backpack in front of Kolivan’s desk and drops himself into the seat. They say nothing until Kolivan’s shut the door behind them and, at that, his first question is only asking how midterm season’s going so far.

At least it’s nothing that Keith even considers lying about. “Everything’s already done except for Antok’s exam on Wednesday and Ryner’s essay.” By way of proving it, he pulls his paper for Kolivan out of his bag’s back pocket. “Nine-and-a-half pages, thirteen sources, synthesizing different arguments into historiographical commentary instead of trying to say something new about the French Revolution, right?”

Keith tries not to smile and leaves out the part where he finished Kolivan’s assignment first. Maybe it had less room for original work than Thace’s, but Thace isn’t Keith’s advisor and although Keith respects him well enough, his approval doesn’t mean as much as Kolivan’s. Bringing up anything like that could probably create some kind of professional ethics issue, or anyway, that wouldn’t surprise Keith. Then, he’d have to figure out how to work with a new advisor, right before finishing his BA and starting in the graduate program next fall, assuming that his application and request to fast-track that get approved. Getting through that without Kolivan sounds like something that Keith _could_ do, but not something that he _wants_ to do.

Kolivan takes a moment to survey the essay before sliding it into his folder. “How _are_ you finding Ryner’s course, so far? That is not why I asked you here today, but it is something in which I have an interest.”

“Does that mean you _could_ have had a reason to ask me here about it?” Realizing what he’s said, Keith’s cheeks flush, but he makes himself look Kolivan in the eye. “Did Ryner _say_ something to you about me?”

“Nothing whatsoever, but we are hardly close as friends or colleagues. _Should_ she have said anything? Or more broadly, is there anything that she _could_ have said?” The fluorescent lights glare off Kolivan’s glasses as he lowers his chin to give Keith a Pointed Look.

Unmistakably, it says, _Do not lie to me, advisee_.

It takes ungodly effort for Keith to refrain from slouching. Balling a hand up in his jeans, he offers, “Well, I don’t think she’s going to say that I’m a joy to have in class anytime soon, and at this point? I’m sure she’s great for other people, but I’d almost rather deal with Iverson.”

But only _almost_. Keith’s first-year physics lecture with Dr. Iverson was Hell for both of them, though Keith will accept the lion’s share of the blame for that. From the too-easy arch of Kolivan’s eyebrow, he still wishes that he were less unofficially impressed with how Keith constantly took naps in the lecture hall, told both of Iverson’s TAs that they deserved better positions and a better boss, then corrected, “flaws” in the setups or underlying logic of every free-response question on the final, even though some of his notes were, at best, reaching — and still walked away with the highest grade in the class.

Really, Dr. Iverson’s probably not a bad person, just a person who got along with Keith even less than most people tend to do. But on the other hand, he never let Keith forget how, on the first day, he rattled off the formula for calculating an object’s acceleration due to gravity when put on the spot about his name. More importantly, Kolivan’s frowning ever-so-slightly, with an expectant edge to it, which makes the hair on the back of Keith’s neck prickle up.

“I thought, ‘creative nonfiction’ meant, like, Capote with _In Cold Blood_. Or Norman Mailer with _The Executioner’s Song. Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil_. Alex Haley’s _Roots_. At worst, maybe Hunter S. Thompson, _On the Road_ , or _The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test_.” If he weren’t grabbing his jeans for dear life, Keith would be digging at his palm hard enough to draw blood. Now, how to say this without sounding so petulant that Kolivan stops listening…

Keith huffs. “So far, all my classmates have turned in is a bunch of first-person whining that wants to be Elizabeth Wurtzel or Augusten Burroughs when it grows up. Meanwhile, Ryner can’t hand back anything I give her without asking where my _personal connection_ to the story is, as though it even matters.”

Kolivan hums, and nods, and then— “Keith, did you read the course description before you registered for it?”

“ _No_?” Keith shrugs and tries to dial back the impatient sneering as he explains himself, “You recommended taking it and I thought I understood what creative nonfiction was, so I just looked up the right numbers and signed up.”

“I suggest that you go back, read the course description, and perhaps expand your definition of, ‘creative nonfiction’—”

“What, to include treating an upper-level course like some bullshit group therapy? Or bitching at a bunch of people I barely know about things that don’t matter and are not their business? No thanks, I’d rather let Zarkon put his tongue in my mouth.” Keith’s fuming as his brain catches up to his mouth, but he wilts under Kolivan’s singularly unimpressed expression. Flushing pink, he tacks on, “ _Sir_.”

“Relax,” Kolivan tells him, as close to gently as he ever gets. “If I could not stomach your periodic rudeness, I would not have kept you as my advisee.” Nevertheless, Keith appreciates it when Kolivan adds, “Nor would I have asked you here today.”

Something about Kolivan’s tone suggests that this conversation isn’t over by a long-shot, but he doesn’t wait long enough to let Keith dwell on that possibility. He simply says, “As you are aware, I find myself in need of a new teaching assistant, who would start in January. Applications close on November 8th. Do you mean to submit one, or do I wait in vain?”

“…What?”

Keith should have something better to say. He should have an actual answer, for one thing.

But his mouth falls open and no words come out. Blinking at Kolivan helps nothing, and shaking his head doesn’t wake Keith up. It _should_ , because obviously, he’s dreaming, right? He has to be. Maybe he was more exhausted than he thought and fell asleep on his notebook in the middle of the seminar, and Kolivan’s about to wake him up and look disappointed with a hint of something that approximates concern.

Except Keith scratches at his thigh hard enough to feel it through his jeans, but this still doesn’t wake him up. The moment seems to drag on between them more slowly than it should, like Keith hit his head but it’s the world who can’t keep up, not him. The longer he goes without saying anything, the more Kolivan seems like he’s fighting off a frown, as though Keith is spectacularly disproving everything he previously believed that would have ever made him ask that question.

“Officially, yes, this position is open to any upper-level or graduate student in the History or Philosophy departments, and I am not permitted to play favorites or choose anyone before all applicants have submitted their forms,” Kolivan says, folding his hands on his desk and leaning toward Keith. “Unofficially, however, I sent the initial email about the position to a very select few, including you. I believe that we work quite well together, and while you are a shade inexperienced, you are more than adequately qualified to be my TA. The position would be advantageous for you, as well. It would impress on a CV or resumé, it _could_ assist you in finding a better sense of what you wish to do with this education, and of immediate interest?”

He looks at Keith over the top of his glasses, pointedly arching an eyebrow. “You would have quite sufficient health insurance. In that regard, TAs receive the same benefits as full-time faculty and staff.”

There’s no way Keith can argue with Kolivan about that. His lack of health insurance has been a sticking point between them ever since Kolivan sent Keith home during his bout with strep. Afterward, Kolivan found out that none of his advisee’s scholarships would cover the costs that fell on him to get the barest health plan offered to students, and Keith didn’t want to spend any of his grant money on that, much less on a better one. He hasn’t reached out for Medicaid, either, because the system’s borderline incomprehensible, almost entirely online, and Keith probably doesn’t qualify for it, anyway.

But right here, right now, Kolivan’s probably quite warranted concerns don’t help.

Keith wants to ask why Kolivan would even consider him as a potential TA. He wants to ask what the Hell Kolivan is thinking, asking Keith to even apply when he’s unpredictable, at his very best. If this is all some roundabout, well-meant but underhanded way of getting Keith health insurance, then Kolivan _can’t_ justify what he’s angling at right now, can he? Passing up applicants who would almost certainly deserve the TA position more than Keith, out of something that would blatantly constitute favoritism? Or is this more than trying to get Keith health insurance? Is Kolivan being serious about saying that Keith could do the work? He can’t be serious, but the only thing clouding the certainty in his expression is a hint of concern. But what, really, is going on here? Because there’s no way that he’s honestly suggesting Keith could do that work, and if he is, then is he high? Did he suffer a concussion over the weekend, while Keith was busy shooting things with Shiro in the foot? These things never go well, and offers like this are never serious, and what in the world is going on?

All the question swirl around Keith’s head, threatening to split it open like Athena if they can’t burst out his mouth already. Instead, Kolivan reaches across the desk. He drops a huge, solid hand to Keith’s shoulder and squeezes. Despite himself, despite the instincts telling him to curl in on himself and push this off, Keith leans toward the contact, pressing his shoulder against Kolivan’s palm.

“Consider what I’ve told you, Keith,” he says, slowly and earnestly. “There is little that I would like more for you than to see you apply for my TA position.”

Looking up at Kolivan, Keith can’t stop his hands from trembling. It gets so much worse as realization dawns on him: whatever the answers to any of his questions are, Kolivan is completely serious.

*** * ***

Although he keeps it together until Kolivan bids him to go get lunch before Antok’s class, Keith doesn’t bother in the elevator. He’s alone when he gets in, so who cares? No one’s there to see him slump onto the cold metal walls and shrink into one of the back corners. No one’s there to watch as the shaking spreads from Keith’s hands to the rest of his arms, to his torso, his legs — if not for the wall behind him, Keith might collapse outright. Doubling over doesn’t quiet his nerves, neither does crouching toward the floor and burying his face in his knees.

After he creaks down past three floors without picking up anyone else, the trembling starts to tickle. Soon enough, Keith’s laughing. As the noise echoes around the car, nothing about it strikes Keith as happy. Dimly, he wishes that it wouldn’t echo so much, or at least that he could sob quietly like a normal person, but there’s no stopping him anymore. His laugh is empty and lost. He reminds himself of a desperate, wounded hyena, only laughing because there’s no other response that he can manage at the moment and probably nothing would suit this situation better, and no matter what he wants, he can’t get out of hearing exactly how broken his laughter sounds.

At least Keith has the elevator to himself, he guesses. At least the elevators in Montgomery always slow to a crawl as they close in on the ground floor, and announce the shift by lurching with an unspoken threat to stop dead between floors and force you to hope the red button works to call for help. When Keith feels that, he lets out one last, barking laugh, then jerks his head back. Smacking it against the wall wasn’t intentional, but the pain helps ground him, he guesses. A few deep breaths later, he’s on his feet, and by the time he’s at his exit, he darts out to the quad as if nothing happened.

Flinching as the sunlight smacks into his eyes, Keith doesn’t get to enjoy his successful self-composure very long. He’s going to meet Shiro now, isn’t he. But fuck him, he’s blanking on their plans? Shiro probably told him where to go. Not that he isn’t open to compromise, but Shiro can be finicky. There are probably several places in town where he’d say that he “can’t” eat, and while it’s not _literally_ true, it might as well be, for all the unnecessary stress he’d have to put himself through.

As he fumbles his phone out of his pocket, Keith can’t actually remember Shiro mentioning any specific places where he might or might not want to get lunch. Flicking through his texts, Keith can’t find any names, either. None that don’t belong to people, rather than restaurants, anyway. He should watch where he’s going, or stop walking maybe, but God, he’s probably running late and he can’t find a record of where he’s supposed to be going. No restaurant names at all, barely even a mention of what he or Shiro felt like they could be in a mood for. The closest Keith gets is finding the text where Shiro told him where Saturday’s show was happening.

Vaguely, he thinks he hears someone call his name from up ahead, but Keith can’t deal with that right now. Besides, there are other guys named Keith on campus. Whoever it is might not be looking for him. Maybe he’s supposed to be meeting Shiro where he works? Except Keith can’t find any mention of that place’s name either, only confirmation that Shiro does, indeed, work at another bookshop, and once again, he has a boss who’d get called “eccentric” if you wanted to be polite about it. Come on, where did he put the information? He and Shiro _did_ agree on something, didn’t they? Something more than Keith telling Shiro about his class schedule for the day and Shiro agreeing that he could work with that.

But Shiro wouldn’t have tried to jerk Keith around like this, would he? Make plans without really making any, then leave Keith to his own devices and probably get mad when Keith can’t put together all the steps exactly? No, that can’t be. Even if Shiro’s upset about Saturday night, the way he should be, pulling that kind of stunt has never been his style. He’s not like almost everybody else, in that way. Even when he was using, he wasn’t like them. But now, Keith can’t find the texts, so he’s going to be late and—

Keith crashes into someone’s chest and drops his phone. They catch it, and Keith starts spluttering out apologies without making a grab to take it back. He only stops when he feels a set of arms squeeze him around the waist. Pulling back enough to look down, Keith furrows his brow at a George Michael t-shirt. When he glances up again, Shiro smiles at him so easily that Keith could almost believe that Saturday night never happened, and he hopes like Hell that his cheeks aren’t turning as pink as he thinks they are. Or he could be going pale, and he hopes that’s not the case, either.

“Sorry I’m late,” Shiro says. “Not sorry to have caught you, but I was going to be here right when you got out of your meeting. Then this customer came in and she needed some help finding her way around the stacks, and then I got distracted, talking about what kind of erotica she was in the mood for and giving her some recommendations on the trashy sci-fi bodice rippers we had in stock. She tried to give me her number while I was ringing her up, but y’know, she was sweet about it when I turned her down…”

He shrugs and chuckles, as though this sort of thing happens to everybody, only to be followed up by them getting tripped into by someone who almost used to be a _something_ with them. At least, Shiro almost sounds like he believes that.

“Hey, you okay?” Shiro says gently, giving Keith a smile that feels like it’s just for him. “You seemed like you were up in outer space.”

Keith nods, because he _should_ be fine, even if he isn’t certain. “I just… Forgot you were coming to meet me here,” he says. “I was trying to find where I was supposed to go, and getting kind of…”

While he’s trying to find the right words, Keith’s brain gets other ideas and starts screaming at him: _Touch his chest, touch his chest, you’re already right here up against him. Or no, wait, his hair. Touch his hair, touch his hair, it’s probably still sooooo soft. It’s longer now, so there’s more of it and come on, it’s right there, he doesn’t even have all of it back in that dumb ponytail, so touch it, touch it, touch it, touch it. What could possibly go wrong, Keith? Suck it up and touch his hair…_

—and he knows he shouldn’t, but Keith reaches up. He gasps as he runs his fingers down Shiro’s white forelock. There’s less shock as he slithers them through the black bit of fringe hanging by the other side of Shiro’s face, but oh, God, it’s so soft. Maybe softer than the white hair. That might be on the bleach? Possibly? Or whatever Shiro does to make his clump of white hair look like that? Keith doesn’t know how these things work, but the difference makes him want to get a better feel of Shiro’s black hair, just in case he needs to know, for any reason. Trying not to tug too hard, he twines his fingers up and curls a lock around one of them, then rubs his thumb over it.

Taking everything in stride, Shiro smiles at him fondly. Keith might not know what to make of that, or of the hand rubbing at the small of his back, but at least he understands perfectly when Shiro asks, “You sure you’re okay? Or is it a nice texture-touching kind of day, but not a bad one?”

Keith untangles his fingers and doesn’t need to force it when he smiles. “Thanks for that. But yeah, I’m fine? Ready to go if you are, though.”

They end up off the western end of campus, at a little place called Yvonne’s, a few blocks away from the science building. Keith’s not sure whether to call it a diner or a café when it feels too relaxed for one but looks like it’s trying too hard to be the other. He gets no help out of the menu hanging over a bar, where several single patrons sit on stools that look like they’d fit better in a nostalgia-fueled rom-com set in the coloring book version of the 1950’s, if their bases weren’t painted in rainbow stripes.

The music could go either way: it’s playing faintly enough for a café, but Keith recognizes the Pet Shop Boys’ version of, “Always On My Mind” by the time Shiro picks out a table. Fitting, probably. Keith knows this version because he and Shiro never resolved their debate on which was better, this one or Brenda Lee’s.

Regardless of what kind of place this is, Shiro greets half of the waitstaff by name as he leads Keith over to a comfortable booth, nestled along the wall, between a framed poster for _Casablanca_ and another one for _To Wong Foo, Thanks For Everything, Julie Newmar_. They might be by the best window in the place, looking out at a park that’s full of dogs. According to Shiro, it’s not exclusively a dog park, but Rover loves it there. All he does is shrug bashfully when Keith huffs about him probably spoiling that dog rotten, and Keith smirks playfully. Even though Rufus is probably the better boy, it’s good that Shiro finally has a canine friend to indulge.

Waiting for their drinks, they slip into catching up again, and it’s so easy that Keith might have goosebumps under his long sleeves. Should it really be so easy, sidling back into each other’s lives after so long and talking to each other like this, as though everything’s okay and always has been? Keith can’t be sure, but he doesn’t feel like it should be this simple. There should be something bigger, right? Something more than Keith trying to listen instead of simply watching Shiro’s lips, while Shiro tells him about another customer he dealt with today, dressed like some knockoff Count Dracula — _“Bela Lugosi’s version, obviously; he even had the cape”_ — and trying maneuver through the shelves without knocking anything over.

Of course, he failed at that, but Shiro guesses the mess the guy left could’ve been a lot worse.

On his turn, Keith explains why he was so out of it when he walked right into Shiro, who beams brighter than the sun while offering his congratulations and agreeing with Kolivan’s assessment that Keith would do well as his TA, or as a TA in general he means, since he’s never met Keith’s advisor and doesn’t know anything about him. Everything that comes to Keith’s mind about that feels too cruel to say out loud, or else involves the things that he’d rather do with Shiro’s mouth right now. He’s grateful that their server shows up, letting him order his sandwich and drink his Coke, instead of putting his foot in his mouth while too sober to have any good excuse.

Kissing Shiro is entirely out of the question, anyway. An understandable desire, given Shiro, and maybe Keith’s brain wants him to want that. Except there’s no way in Hell that Shiro would say, _“yes.”_

But as their server bounces off toward the kitchen, Shiro leans in closer, perching his chin on his palm, sighing warmly, and nearly knocking over his Diet Coke, until Keith moves it, because he’s watching Keith instead of paying attention to where he shoves his elbow. More than simply watching, he is looking at Keith in a way that makes no sense. Smiling, letting his eyes go soft and dewy like they’re straight out of a Disney movie, mooning like Shiro might as well have met Keith once upon a dream. The rest of the world could be burning down outside the window and Shiro wouldn’t notice anything. Which is fine, that’s his business, but there’s no reason for this kind of happiness and Shiro could just say something if Keith has gunk in his teeth.

As much as Keith doesn’t want to kill Shiro’s mood, they’re going to get nowhere slowly, if someone doesn’t try to shift the conversation. Since Shiro doesn’t seem to want that job, Keith clinks the ice cubes around his glass and sighs, and goes for the first thing that comes to mind:

“I’m sorry about Saturday night,” he says, fussing with the bendy part of his straw. “I did mean to get tipsy, but not _too_ much? Not after we agreed to talk. And if that’s an issue, or if it could be, then I swear, I don’t usually drink like that.”

Or too much at all, but that part is complicated and potentially depressing, so Keith ignores it. Shiro doesn’t say anything, only furrows his brow like he can’t tell if Keith is being serious or not. In fairness, Keith’s putting him on the spot. But would it kill Shiro to chime in here? Keith’s foot knocks into Shiro’s ankle as he slouches back into the seat and splays his legs out ahead of him.

Pressing his thumb against the cold glass and the condensation, Keith picks up again so Shiro doesn’t have to: “But I wasn’t drinking like that because of you or anything? Or because of what’s tangled up between us? Or anything like that? Mostly it was a night to cut loose for once?”

Jesus, he probably sounds like an idiot with all this upward inflection. Dragging a hand back through his hair, Keith rushes to add, “Also, there was that asshole with the purple hair who didn’t take, ‘No’ for an answer. And I mean, you guys were the only good act who played all night, _but_ …”

Keith huffs, his version of laughing at his own joke. Not that it’s actually a joke, but the cadence should make it sound funnier. So should the way that Keith trails off. Except that Shiro doesn’t even smile. He just groans softly, rubbing at the bridge of his nose.

“I am _so_ sorry about him,” Shiro says. “I didn’t think he’d be there, either. He’s not… Well, no, he _is_ an asshole. He probably has an easier time saying it than I do, he can be overly pleased with himself when he has no right to be…”

Hearing the way Shiro sighs, Keith about chokes on his Coke. “Wait, he wasn’t like, a total stalker super-fan? You actually _know_ him?”

“In the Biblical sense and everything.” Hunching his shoulders, Shiro explains, “He’s my most recent ex-boyfriend, and… uh. You remember the one song from Saturday? The one that went like, _‘I’m totally fucked and you are too’_? I wrote it about him.”

“That song had so many F-bombs, I though Lance came up with it.” …Which probably sounds harsher than Keith wanted, so he drags himself into sitting up and slumps forward onto the table with Shiro, telling him, “Not that it was bad, okay? Just different. For you, I mean. Or for your old philosophy of cussing.”

“Lotor has a way of bringing out — I don’t know, not always the worst in people? Like, his bandmates in The Ultraviolents aren’t constantly falling apart or anything? But he brings out the parts of people that they don’t like very much.” Shiro squeezes everything out of his lime wedge and sips his drink before giving Keith a wan, wobbly smile. “But I cannot stress the, _‘ex’_ part enough. Lotor and I are bad for each other. We’re over.”

Keith purses his lips, recalling Purple Ex’s use of the present tense. “I think he may not be on the same page with you about that.”

“He wants to get me back, but I don’t want him.”

That’s reassuring, and so is Shiro’s certainty in saying it. The little upward quirk of his lips is reassuring. But as Keith curls his legs back to his side of the booth, he can’t bring himself to pick on Lotor, no matter how much easier it feels. He wraps both hands around his glass and swallows thickly. He doesn’t want to talk about this when he knows it’s going to be difficult, but Keith takes a deep breath, he digs down deep, and he makes himself find the words.

“Being confused doesn’t mean that I regret anything, okay? Aside from getting drunk and wrecking things, but I think that’s fair, right?”

—Maybe not the right words.

Or the fact that Shiro goes wide-eyed and bewildered? Makes Keith feel like he probably didn’t find the right words. Rubbing his thumbs up the side of his glass, Keith watches, waits for Shiro to say something. Anything he wants to say, Keith probably deserves it. Except Shiro only tucks his black fringe back behind his ear and straightens up in his seat. Not all the way, but he wants Keith to know that he’s paying attention when all Keith wants is for him to chime in already. Sure, Keith’s the one who outright said he felt confused, but he can’t talk about this _relationship_ or _whatever they have going on here_ all by himself.

“I don’t regret going to the show, though,” he says, pulling his legs back so far that his feet butt into the bottom of the seat. “It was a fun night, for the most part? Your songs were great? Well, mostly. I didn’t like some of them, because they’re not my style, but…” _I can do this. I can do this, and I have to._ “I mean, I can’t believe you covered Christina Aguilera at a punk rock show?”

_God, fuck, dammit… Wrong answer, Kogane. The **exact** wrong answer._

Either Shiro misses how Keith cringes or he ignores it, for the moment. “That’s actually one of our things,” he says with a shrug and an unconvincing chuckle. “Like, it started because we wanted to cover, ‘Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go’ a while back? But it was fun, so we kept doing punk versions of not-punk songs… Our fans expect it at our shows, by now.”

“That’s not the point, though. It’s cool, but not the point. Just…” Keith takes a deep breath. He has to do this. He doesn’t want to, but if they don’t talk about things, Keith’s never going to be able to get through a conversation with Shiro again. “I _did_ miss you. Being drunk brought it out more clearly, but it wasn’t the Jack talking. Or Lotor’s tequila, either. I meant what I said. But I also meant that I didn’t _want_ to miss you. I’m sorry, I know this is stupid and it’s such a mess, but—”

“No, I get it.” Shiro toes at Keith’s ankle, but he drops all attempts at smiling. Most people wouldn’t get what he’s doing, probably, but Keith does. The honesty in Shiro’s expression — confused, and pensive, and not quite blank but also not particularly expressive — steadies Keith’s nerves more than Shiro faking a smile for him when it’s not how he really feels.

Running his fingers over the curve of his ear again, Shiro says, “You didn’t think you’d see me ever again, after what happened. And it hurt, but dwelling on it seemed pointless. _‘Never’_ is pretty permanent. Nothing you or anybody else can do about it, you just have to accept it. So, telling yourself you didn’t miss me made it easier, right?”

Keith should have something to say to that. Maybe Shiro’s not confessing in the strictest sense — he isn’t admitting to anything outright — but he’s hitting the nail on the head so closely and so hard… Sure, he could know in theory, not from personal experience? But that would fit, if he can’t admit that he’s gone though this without some kind of prodding. You don’t listen to something like this — you don’t watch someone who you love open up like this, not even someone you care about in the slightest, no matter if you’d call it love or not — and fail to say something appropriate. Something sensitive and understanding.

All Keith manages is a limp huff and, “Did you get psychic in the past few years.”

“No. But I’ve been there, too.” Shiro smiles again, and it’s not fake, but only because he isn’t trying to hide the fact that, at the moment, he’s more tired and rueful than anything else. “I didn’t want to miss you, either. I wanted to think what happened was all for the best, that what I did…” Shrugging, he glances down at Keith’s hands, and when he looks back up, Shiro drops the attempt at smiling again. “But it doesn’t help, does it? Not really, anyway. No matter what you tell yourself, you’re still left wanting someone to be there when they aren’t…”

_Yeah, the way you used to get about your parents, right?_

Okay, no, Keith cannot allow himself to say that. Absolutely can’t. Even if it _weren’t_ bad form for a lunch date, whether a romantic one or not, and even if it weren’t so painfully insensitive, there’s no way it would be fair, acting like Shiro missing him is anywhere near the same level as grieving his dead parents. Keith not having parents is the only reason why Shiro would let him get away with shit like that, as though being an orphan makes it any less awful of him to imply Keith matters that much to Shiro. Yeah, in all likelihood, he wouldn’t be nearly as angry as Keith would deserve, but dammit, Keith’s getting wrapped up in his thoughts again, lost in possibilities that aren’t even worth the energy to ponder.

As he forces himself to look more closely at Shiro’s face, though, Keith can’t think of what to say. He nods, because Shiro’s right — about the feelings and unfortunately, about how little it helps to pretend they don’t exist — but the words don’t come. At least Shiro nods back in understanding, because apparently, he’s still one of the few people who get it when Keith can’t get his mouth around talking like a normal person. He holds his hand out toward Keith’s arm. When he gets another jerk of Keith’s head, he curls his fingers around Keith’s wrist. Keith inhales sharply as warmth floods over him, bursting out of the middle of his chest, down through his arms and his stomach. But he gives Shiro a small smile, so he won’t get any ideas about that little gasp being something negative.

Apparently, though, it’s good enough: “So, what do you feel so confused by?” Shiro says, brushing his thumb along Keith’s pulse point. “It’s okay. Just say anything you feel. I’m not going to judge.”

Which sounds fine to Keith in theory, but… “What if I say something that _hurts_ you, instead.”

“Then, let it. I accept the risk.” Shiro sighs, almost smiles, then seems to think better of it and goes back to the serious expression. “Say whatever you feel, even if it hurts me. Even if it doesn’t make any sense. Just be honest with yourself. With both of us. That’s all I ask, alright?”

The go-ahead is helpful, but Keith’s breath still shudders before he hauls the words out of himself: “I feel like I _should_ regret something about this?”

Shiro furrows his brow and clearly doesn’t understand, but the way he squeezes Keith’s wrist helps him spit out, “I feel like shouldn’t want to see you, but I do. I shouldn’t want to text you and I know that, but now that you have my number, I keep checking my phone, in case you sent me something and I missed it. When I haven’t missed anything? I don’t know how to feel about it, but I keep hoping? And maybe I’m the worst for that—”

“Why would that make you any—”

“Because you don’t — and _I_ don’t — I don’t know, okay? But it feels like it _would_.”

Now that he’s said so, Keith isn’t sure how true it is to say he doesn’t know what’s going on for him. It felt true. Part of it still does. For once, he can see Shiro’s objections building up, spelled out all over his face. Most tellingly, there’s the spark behind his eyes like it’s taking everything he can muster to hold something back instead of cutting in to tell Keith that it’s fair to feel how he feels, but that these things aren’t indicative of how _Shiro_ feels about anything. Whether that kind of platitude is true or not, Keith doesn’t need to hear it right now.

Muttering that he needs a minute, Keith takes a long drink of his Coke. He doesn’t say it, but he’s grateful that Shiro keeps it together enough not to interject — more so when he lets a leg spill to the other side of the booth again and Shiro can’t make his stop bouncing, not even when Keith’s shin presses up against his calf. Still, Keith has to close his eyes so he can’t get distracted by the impatient edge creeping into Shiro’s expression, or worse, by his lips hanging open just enough to let Keith see his annoyingly perfect teeth. There’s nothing helpful in Shiro’s face, and Keith has to focus. He knows what happened, and he doesn’t want to talk about it, but they have to, because Keith wants the air as clear as possible and if they’re going to keep talking, then Shiro deserves to know—

“After you left for that inpatient place? I looked for you. Tried to, anyway.” Sighing, Keith forces himself to meet Shiro’s eyes again. He deserves that, too. “I had no clue where to start, but Mark and I didn’t know where you were, so I assumed the worst. Like, maybe Maurice was involved, or maybe you’d gotten into trouble with… I don’t even know who. Not Haxus, but someone else involved with pills.”

Something flashes across Shiro’s face, too quick for Keith to interpret it. “I didn’t get anywhere, trying to find you,” he goes on, and lets himself look at their hands on the table instead of Shiro’s face. Maybe he deserves better, but Keith’s kept this exclusively between himself and his journal for so long, at this point… The fact that he’s saying any of this feels more surreal than finding Shiro in the garage and getting hugged, even more than realizing that the Jack had made him tell the truth about missing Shiro.

Keith’s head is swimming as he makes himself say, “Then you called and said you were getting help, but it didn’t sound like that. So, I kept trying to find you. Because I didn’t believe it. Not like I got anywhere with that, obviously, but I tried…”

With a sigh, Keith looks up again, but he can’t make himself hold the eye contact. “I should’ve listened, I should’ve trusted you… Even when the letter from you came, I knew Aunt Satomi wouldn’t have? Like, if she’d stepped in, then you _had_ to be getting help for real, right? But I kept looking for some _conspiracy_ to explain everything. All because I didn’t want you to be _gone_. And I thought it was about you. I thought it was about being worried and wanting what was best for you? I sure told myself it was.”

_Come on, Kogane, you can look him in the eye_ — Keith doesn’t even let himself stare at the space between Shiro’s eyebrows. He makes himself swallow how much the eye contact hurts like getting kicked in the fucking stomach. “But now you’re back and you’re _sober_ now? Which is great,” he says, “but it means that you got help. Clearly. Even if it hasn’t been easy for you. Nobody who matters would expect to be. And it’s like… I’m happy for you, I am? And I _want_ to be here now, I do, but?”

Keith sighs and tugs his wrist out of Shiro’s hold. “God, how can I even say I cared about you? You really were getting help and I wanted to tug you away from that because it was sudden, and I hated that, and I _missed_ you. What kind of selfish—”

“Keith,” Shiro cuts in, squeezing his wrist again but letting go almost immediately. “You were _right_ , though.”

“…Huh?” Keith _needs_ to find something better to say than that, but aside from gaping, letting the _huh_ crash out of him is the only thing he gets his mouth to do.

“You were right not to trust that, when it happened. I wasn’t getting help. Not at first.” Shiro takes a deep breath and looks guiltier than Keith feels, but unlike Keith, he doesn’t have to look at the table. Maybe he wants to, but he doesn’t _let_ himself. “I did get help, eventually. Ryou and Aunt Satomi realized I was worse off than they’d guessed, and I needed them to step in, like I couldn’t have gotten… Not on my own, anyway. But when I first moved out? It was Maurice. He made me come into his place, he—”

“Then I should _really_ regret trying to see you, shouldn’t I?”

As soon as he says it, Keith checks every corner of the restaurant, even glances over his shoulder. Settling back into his seat, he’s not sure why he bothered. No one seems to have noticed anything, because Keith may not have been as loud as he thought and why would any other patrons care about his and Shiro’s problems. They’re talking about their relationship, not some miracle cure for cancer. Moreover, Maurice hasn’t materialized out of thin air to kidnap Shiro back to the Midwest, sink in his claws, and ruin everything all over again. _Of course he didn’t, Keith. He isn’t **literally** the Devil. What the Hell are you even thinking?_

“But it’s… It’s like Lance told me,” Keith explains, sulking and wishing that he wouldn’t. “I clearly don’t know what you’ve been through since Chicago—”

“So, what?” Shiro’s hand shifts toward Keith’s wrist, but then he pulls it back. “All I know is that you’re in school, you don’t drink that often, and you’re still friends with your ex-girlfriend. We don’t have to trade, like, Saint Augustine-length confessions to spend time with each other.”

“But if Maurice was involved?” Keith splutters. “He was terrible, and I knew it. I told you so, and he was the one who took you. Which means you needed someone, and I should’ve guessed it, but then you told me not to do anything, so I just left. Even when I had that feeling, when I felt like something wasn’t right? What kind of person does that — I didn’t think about… So, you obviously don’t need someone like—”

“Keith, please listen to me.” This time, Shiro doesn’t go for Keith’s wrist. He nudges at the top of Keith’s hand, then peels it off the glass. Once Keith’s hand is free, Shiro laces their fingers together. It’s the sort of gesture that should be cute, except that nothing about the context will allow that.

“Lance. _Does **not**._ Speak for me. Okay?” Squeezing Keith’s hand, Shiro tells him, “Yes, Lance is my friend. We care about each other. He’s protective, and I’ve given him reason to be, but Lance _doesn’t_ speak for me. Whatever happened before between us, I was happy to see you again. I was happy when you texted me before, and to see you today. I’m happy to be with you now. The only reason why I wouldn’t stay here with you all day is that you have a class.”

As much as Keith wants to trust that, a thought occurs and he mumbles, “…Are you just saying that to calm me down?”

“No, I’m not.” Shiro glances at their hands as he goes quiet, with that pensive look he always wore while arguing with some lyrics that wouldn’t cooperate. It hasn’t gone away when he meets Keith’s gaze again. “I’m saying it because you could text me at three AM to complain about how you brushed your teeth five times and still feel like you’ve got popcorn kernels stuck in between them, and I’d be happy. Not because you were uncomfortable, but like…”

A shrug, and a gentle smile. “As much as I don’t want that for you, I’d be happy that you texted _me_ about it.”

Dimly, Keith thinks that he should question that statement more thoroughly. It really sounds like Shiro means it, but in Chicago, he could lie about not being intoxicated and sound as though he really meant it. Except there’s nothing shifty about his expression, and he doesn’t even try to fake a smile. He just looks at Keith like he has no idea else to say, what else he can do to make Keith believe him. But he _needs_ Keith to believe him. Without saying anything, he’s making that part obvious.

It’s like the lyrics from Saturday night, the ones that Lotor looked ready to fight Keith over. _Should’ve told you every day back when I had the chance_ , something something something, _now tell me what am I supposed to do_ , et cetera, _because it’s killing me when you’re away_ …

A Shiro original, that’s what Lance called it before plugging Galaxy Garrison’s upcoming next album. God, what Keith wouldn’t give to be the guy who Shiro really wrote that song for, not the one who’s looking Shiro’s longing in the face and still wondering if he can _really_ trust it. Maybe it’s earnest but Shiro didn’t want to fall in love, back then. He was open about that and after shot-gunning Mark’s weed led to them making out on the futon, Keith agreed to stick to that. His old feelings are not Shiro’s problem. Making them into Shiro’s problem would be worse than acting like Keith had completely selfless motives when he left Chicago.

Besides, no matter where _Shiro_ stands on any of this personally, things like that don’t really happen, not to Keith. But Shiro’s twisting up his eyebrows, and he’s frowning, and he looks so sincere that it makes Keith’s chest feel empty and then it aches… There’s nothing that he’d stand to gain from saying that Keith makes him happy…

Before Keith makes up his mind one way or the other, their server bounds back over with their lunch. Trying to talk too much over food sounds like a bad idea. Sure, Keith keeps up the small talk, when Shiro asks about what his class is gonna be today — but wherever Shiro’s at right now, however well he is or isn’t doing with anything else that’s going on, he probably needs to focus on reminding himself that he’s allowed to eat.

Trying to be reassuring, Keith toes at Shiro’s ankle and gives him a smile. He still isn’t certain about who feels what or doesn’t, and he’s even more lost on what anything about this means, but Keith knows that, at the moment? Even with the guilt like dead-weight in his stomach, there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.

*** * ***

After lunch, Shiro insists on walking Keith back to campus for Antok’s class. En route, he insists on stopping to get Keith a coffee from The Daily Grind. Despite knowing better, Keith can’t bring himself to question either thing, beyond hissing that Java Hut is slightly better while they’re on-line and suggesting that Shiro get something for himself, too.

Shiro doesn’t argue on that, even gets a hot chocolate, which makes it easier for Keith to put together several reasons why he isn’t going to ruin everything by letting this go on. If things between him and Shiro don’t make sense, if he can’t figure out why Shiro’s acting like he is, then maybe Keith needs more evidence. Allura’s right about how easily he slips away into his own head sometimes. Not that being around people necessarily stops Keith from doing to, but it’s harder to drift off when he’s at a crosswalk, hovering close to Shiro’s side and wondering how he’d take it if Keith tried to hold his hand.

Although he doesn’t get an exact answer to that question, Shiro squeezes Keith’s shoulder as the light changes and Keith’s chest floods with warmth again, in a way that can’t be from the coffee. On top of the physical warmth, Keith feels something else and the only word that comes to mind is pink. Warm and pink — God, this must be pushing the limits of, _“an old crush that Keith obviously hasn’t gotten over”_ but feelings are what they are.

What they are is incredibly annoying and tedious, but whatever. That’s probably just human nature or something like that.

As another crosswalk halts them opposite the quad, Keith can’t stand how quiet things are and blurts out, “How’d you get your scar? The one on your face, I mean?”

Shiro’s cheeks twinge pink as he shoves his free hand into his sweatshirt’s pocket. All he tells Keith is, “Don’t laugh.”

Keith frowns and wrinkles his nose at Shiro, but the light changes instead of letting him glare at Shiro properly. “Why would I laugh?” Leaning a bit closer, so he can lower his voice, he adds, “I know I’m not exactly nice or fun to deal with? But I wouldn’t laugh about one of your boyfriends, I don’t know, going at you with a broken bottle or—”

“That’s not what happened!” When Keith jerks back, Shiro blushes again. He mumbles an apology for losing his sense of volume control and takes a long sip of his drink before explaining, “I got it rock-climbing. With Ryou. Out in California.”

“That’s not funny, either…”

As they pass the science building, Shiro’s entire face goes strawberry-red and it’s the cutest shit Keith’s seen in weeks. When Keith nudges his shoulder, Shiro sighs and says he’s getting there, he just needs a moment.

“After I got out of Chicago, I didn’t want to go to rehab,” he explains as they wander past the library. “Ryou and Aunt Satomi insisted, which was completely right, but then I got out here and I was staying with Ryou, and things were… Not bad, exactly? But they were messy, and I was fragile. Then, one night, he has a date, but Matt and Pidge are home for their Mom’s birthday while Lance and Hunk are off at an Esparza family reunion — Lance’s family, I mean. We didn’t have Rover yet, and I didn’t handle being alone very well, like? I got into my own head and everything felt like…”

Another sigh. “Sorry, mincing words isn’t helpful, is it?” Another sip of hot chocolate. “I got wasted off my head on Cuervo. Tried to cover it with Altoids, but ate too many, made myself sick. Threw up in the shower. Cleaned up most of it, but…” He probably doesn’t mean to nudge Keith in the shoulder, it’s just a side-effect of shrugging. “Ryou got home and found me sitting in the tub, soaked through and fully clothed… Next morning, he started planning things.”

“I’m still not seeing anything what I’m supposed to laugh at here, Shiro.” Whether or not it’s a good idea, Keith fumbles his hand into Shiro’s pocket and grabs hold of Shiro’s. When he squeezes it, Shiro takes his hand out, which is at least less awkward. “But you don’t have to explain it, okay?”

“No, I want to,” Shiro tells him. “Or part of me doesn’t? But another part of me _does_ , and my therapist wants me to work on talking about things like this more openly. And talking about my screw-ups is easier than some things…”

He gives Keith a smile, and Keith could blush himself, it’s so fucking cute. “Anyway, uh. Ryou and I always had this idea that we batted around — like, since we were eight and our parents took us to Disneyland? It took a bunch of different forms over the years, but it was always that we’d go out to California, rent a car, and road-trip by ourselves for a couple weeks.” The nudge at Keith’s shoulder is definitely intentional, this time. Shiro’s smirk says everything. “We were too young to rent a car, still, so we had to borrow it from one of our cousins. But we went through with the idea, finally. Disneyland was great until I broke down crying about my Dad after Space Mountain. Hearst Castle was morbid, but amazing…”

“So, why would I laugh at any of this?” Keith’s almost getting offended, now. Anxiety’s a bitch, he gets that, but there is literally nothing funny about Shiro and his brother going out to California in the name of Shiro’s mental health.

“So, Ryou’s favorite stop was camping out at Joshua Tree.” The nostalgic smile lights up his face, and Keith can’t help grinning at it. “I mean, he also liked dragging me to see the Hollywood sign, but the fun of that wore off pretty quickly. Anyway, a couple days of quiet between the two of us and nature was always going to be more his speed…”

“Unless he’s had a personality transplant recently?” Keith deadpans. “I’d guess that Ryou’s speed is more like getting lost in main branch of the New York Public Library for four days, only dealing with other humans when you make him come eat or he needs help finding something.”

Shiro snorts as if that’s actually funny and acquiesces that Keith isn’t wrong. “But he really liked the camping trip,” he says, not losing his smile exactly, but letting it fade a bit. “Anyway, on our last day out there? It’d been fun, but we still felt restless. Probably because we’d finally been talking about how rehab had gone for me, and how he got cheated on while I was in there, and what all my problems were with his pain-in-the-neck best friend—”

“You had problems with his best friend?” Keith doesn’t laugh, but he does allow himself to huff. “I’m guessing they’re no longer friends?”

Paling and pursing his lips, Shiro shakes his head and squeezes Keith’s hand, but it feels like he’s doing it more for himself than for Keith. “Slav and Ryou live together, now. Our differences aside, though? Slav isn’t a _bad_ person. He’s just the single most _annoying_ person I have ever met in my life. But unless he ever _actually_ treats Ryou wrong, and as long as I don’t have to deal with him? There’s no reason for me to _object_ to Slav, so…”

Their drinks are gone as they come up on Montgomery Hall, but the story isn’t. Fortunately, Keith still has time before Antok’s class starts and according to Shiro, his boss won’t mind if he takes a longer lunch than usual. If anything, he’ll probably encourage it. Or at least, Shiro insists as much as Keith leads him over to the old hawthorn tree, so they won’t clog up the footpath. Mr. Phalen, it seems, is perfectly aware that he hired a recovering addict with an eating disorder, trauma, and in Shiro’s words, _“some **serious** issues and a therapist who’d be happy to list them all off in descending order of likelihood to interrupt an employee’s ability to work, if Mr. Phalen ever wanted to ask for that.”_ Knowing what he does, Mr. Phalen cares more about whether or not Shiro takes care of himself than whether or not he follows his schedule exactly to the letter.

It’s certainly convenient, Keith admits as he slumps back against the tree, setting his bag on the ground by his feet. Doesn’t explain why Shiro crowds in on Keith’s front instead of leaning next to him, when the trunk has space enough for both of them, but he’s not close enough to make it feel stifling and he doesn’t let go of Keith’s hand. About the only downside is the fact that Shiro puts Keith in the exact right place to stare at Shiro’s mouth.

“Anyway, Ryou and I were feeling restless, on our last day out there…” Whatever he made Keith promise before, Shiro’s eyes light up like he’s enjoying himself with this story now. “Which should’ve seemed like more of a problem to us at the time, but…” He shrugs, admitting that they got stupid without outright saying so. “I wanted to go rock-climbing, and we had Kira’s rock-climbing gear in the car. She said we could use it, if we wanted. Ryou was just as on-edge as I was, so he didn’t think to tell me we should think about things harder or at least go to the visitor center so we could call Kira and ask what the Hell we were doing…”

“So, you what?” Keith isn’t going to laugh. He isn’t going to laugh. He’s going to gently swing their hands, playfully skirting toward Shiro’s hip but never completely touching him, and he isn’t going to laugh because he promised. “You grabbed a loose rock and it hit you in the face?”

Shiro snickers, but shakes his head. “I lost rock-paper-scissors to see which of us would climb first. Kira kept some instructions in her car, so we got things set up partly right. Ryou got up a decent ways before he wanted to come down…” Edging closer to Keith, Shiro pouts like he’s trying to come off as innocent, but his shifty eyes are playful about how much he’s failing. “So, it gets to be my turn, and I _know_ it’s not a contest? But I’ve got something to prove to _myself_ at that point, especially when I fell off the wagon not even two months out of rehab. And Ryou’s slightly calmer now, but he’s egging me on and we don’t necessarily check everything on me as well as we should have…”

He rests his free arm on the bark above Keith’s head, and goes on while Keith tries not to stare too obviously at his mouth. “I get up higher than he does before I notice that anything’s off… But then something doesn’t feel right, so I think I’m going to come down? Except Ryou tells me to keep going, so I do. But I keep telling him something doesn’t feel right, and he finally thinks I’m having a panic attack — which I wasn’t, but… He wasn’t wrong to worry about that. Especially since they were still pretty _new_ for me? I didn’t really know the best ways to handle them yet. They’re still a bit dicey sometimes, but my therapist tells me that’s not especially unusual…”

Grazing his teeth over his lower lip, Shiro huffs and squeezes Keith’s hand. “Anyway, well. One thing led to another, which led to another, and Ryou and I keep missing each other, zigging while the other zags and all of that. He gets the brilliant idea to come up again, without a harness or anybody acting as _his_ anchor, so he can come get me down. Which is nice in theory, but he starts getting scared…”

A bashful shrug, and he tilts his head to the perfect angle to move in for a kiss. He doesn’t make that move, but Shiro could go there, if they’re in the Bizarro Looking-Glass World where he wants that. “Maybe he doesn’t have a panic attack either, but I’m telling him to go back down and let me handle things myself, but he won’t listen. I hit a section of rock that’s not _slick_ exactly, but the traction isn’t great? I slip. Start tumbling. Ryou catches me with his body—”

“You mean you fell on him?” Keith rolls his eyes, but it’s more or less affectionate.

Shiro purses his lips like he’s got a dirty little secret. Nodding, he repeats, “Ryou caught me with his body. He thought he’d get it all to stop if he managed that? But then gravity had some _disagreements_ to raise with our idea that we shouldn’t be rolling downhill anymore…”

“What the _Hell_ , Shiro. Why would you _ever_ think I’d laugh at that? You two are probably lucky that you didn’t _die_ —”

“Oh, believe me, we know. Knew it then, too.” As Keith’s hand brushes past again, Shiro bumps against it with his hip. “So, we untangled ourselves. Checked each other for anything that hurt or anything that looked damaged. Nothing seems broken or off, so we figure we’ll just get up and balance each other out while we get the rest of the way down? We start going and Ryou’s even telling me how lucky we are, and how this might have been a pretty bad idea. So, I insist that no, no, it’s all fine, we’re fine, we’re not even really hurt. I smack a different piece of cliff, one we _hadn’t_ been climbing on…”

Shiro grins, but still looks like he’s apologizing as he tells Keith, “Which shook loose a sharp rock, which _fell_ and hit me in the face.”

Although Keith doesn’t laugh, he can’t manage doing anything else, either. He goes silent, looking at Shiro, thinking about that story and how _ridiculous_ it sounded… Keith can’t help asking himself how Shiro and Ryou ever could have thought they had a good idea on their hands with that rock-climbing misadventure. But at the same time, it makes perfect sense. For both of them, but for Shiro especially. He was restless, like he said, and in all likelihood, he wanted to feel _normal_ again, or as close to normal as he’s ever been able to get… Watching the easy way he’s smiling now, Keith can perfectly imagine Shiro bouncing on the balls of his feet while Ryou tries to get his harness set up properly… Shiro scrambling up some steep, craggy surface, chasing after the rush of accomplishing something… His lips were probably chapped, and now, here they are, right in front of Keith and looking perfectly smooth…

Shiro moves his free arm again, so he can brush some of Keith’s hair off his forehead. “Thanks for not laughing,” he says. “What’re you thinking about?”

“How much I want to kiss you.” Keith didn’t mean to say that and he straightens up as his brain catches up to his mouth. He squeezes Shiro’s hand, blinking at the confusion spilling all over his face, and nods. “I mean, you and Ryou made bad choices, too. And I get it, why you’d be afraid I’d laugh, or of anybody laughing…”

Except Keith can’t look away from Shiro’s mouth, not even as he nods. “I want to kiss you. Y’know, if you want to?”

Shiro doesn’t say anything, just sidles further into Keith’s space and ducks his fingers under Keith’s chin. He leans down while Keith leans up. Letting go of Shiro’s hand makes Keith’s heart race in protest, but it steadies as his arms find their way up around Shiro’s shoulders, as his hand nudges against Shiro’s ponytail. Still, there’s hesitation, like Shiro’s trying too hard to be a gentleman, as if Keith would know the difference. Groaning in exasperation, Keith tugs him the rest of the way down and shoves them together.

Apparently, that gets the message through Shiro’s beautiful head already. He sighs into Keith’s mouth, pressing him harder into the tree. That warm, pink feeling’s back again, washing over Keith in waves with the gentle way that Shiro moves his lips on Keith’s chapped ones, with the faint taste of his hot chocolate and the ghost of his godawful lip-chap. He can’t get too crazy, not right now, not with class coming up and it being the middle of the day, so Keith keeps his hips to himself, content with kneading at Shiro’s spine and sucking on his lip, no matter what it tastes like. His leg knocks into Shiro’s as Shiro cups a hand around Keith’s face, but it’s not on purpose, and Keith nips at Shiro’s mouth so he won’t get distracted. Focusing on each other’s mouths is perfect. It’s all Keith needs.

Even if they can’t do more than this right now, Keith could easily stay here all afternoon. While Shiro’s breathing for a second, his hand moves from Keith’s cheek up through his hair, and oxygen’s important, Keith gets that? But that moment takes way too long and every second makes him ache like he’s starving outside a bakery he can’t afford to eat at, so he kisses Shiro again as soon as it seems like he won’t pass out. Shiro laughs into it, this time, leaning into things more eagerly—

And that’s when the clock in the center-quad starts clanging, dinging out that it’s one-forty-five. Keith gasps, but doesn’t pull back. Shit, right, Shiro has to get back to work and Antok’s class starts at two. Keith doesn’t want to leave here, though. He _doesn’t_ , not when everything feels so warm, so _right_ , and Jesus, Shiro is still the Michelangelo of making out… Smiling fondly, Shiro smooths out Keith’s hair and chuckles something about flattery not being necessary because he’d kiss Keith again in a heartbeat if Keith wanted, he’s wanted to do that since last Thursday.

“But it’s okay, I get it,” he says. “We can hit the pause button until later. As long as you want to.”

“That’s a plan. Or a date? Wait, we didn’t say anything about…” Keith huffs and shakes his head. “I’ve got an exam on Wednesday and an essay left to finish? But God, yes, of course I want to do that again.”

“Just have to ask. So you know you can always tell me, ‘No.’ Even if it’s supposed to be a birthday kiss, okay?” Shiro pecks at the corner of Keith’s mouth with a smile before pulling back and heading off for work.

Watching him go sucks the life out of everything and leaves everything feeling muted. If Keith could’ve gotten out of his own head, he would’ve appreciated the view of Shiro’s ass, but he’s too far away when Keith remembers that there’s no law against checking Shiro out. But shit, fuck, right — class. Antok wouldn’t have class outside even if it were still warm, never mind relocating just so Keith doesn’t have to get his shit together.

*** * ***

His head’s still swimming as he fumbles into the building. _Why did Shiro mention anything about birthdays? His isn’t until February, and why would he care about Allura’s when he hasn’t even met her yet… Wait, mine’s next week, too, isn’t it? It should be, but did he mean that… Well, what else would he have meant?_

But as lost and muddled and swamped out as he feels, Keith makes it to the elevator. He makes it up to the fourth floor, and he gets the classroom in his sights. Ducking into the restroom first couldn’t hurt, though. Just take a moment before class starts, take a leak and splash cold water on his face until he feels like he can fake through being a normal, functioning human being again…

Four rounds of splashing and Keith doesn’t feel any different. Something’s tightening inside his chest, curling around his lungs like smoke while his head can’t decide if it’s completely empty or full of cotton balls. Yet, his reflection is the same as always. A bit distracted, maybe, but it’s midterms week and Keith probably doesn’t appear any more out of it than anybody else on campus. Shiro fixed up his hair so well, it’s probably in better order than before Shiro mussed it up. But none of that helps. How can Keith look like everything is still the same while his brain’s fogging over and there’s this unnamed worry tapping its claws against his shoulder?

A quick glance to make sure he’s alone, then Keith ducks into a stall, scrubbing his hands at his still-damp face. The lock thwacking into place does it. That’s the back-breaking straw. As soon as Keith slides it over, the dam breaks on more thoughts than he can handle: Shiro seemed so happy to see him today, like he really meant it, like he wasn’t completely full of shit and that’s great… But he seemed so much better off in general, besides, even after eggshell-walking around points about Maurice, about Lotor, about rehab… Lance might not speak for Shiro, but he wasn’t wrong to say that Keith has no idea what he’s getting into or how he could upset the balance… It took Shiro four years to get his one-year chip and no matter how much he smiled at Keith today, it’s not going to last because it can’t because things like this don’t happen to Keith and any time they ever have, it hasn’t lasted and everything has come out ruined and Keith’s the only thing these situations have had in common, which means it’s all his fault…

Nothing about this situation can work out, nor will it, and it can’t because Keith doesn’t deserve for that to happen… He’s not an idiot, he knows how this story goes, he’s ruined it before and why would anything be different this time… Last time he dared to have a crush on Shiro, Shiro disappeared and Keith got hurt but how can he let himself remember that, okay sure, it hurt that Shiro wasn’t there when Keith wanted him to be, but Shiro was with _Maurice_ and couldn’t leave, that’s objectively worse than Keith being left again, which he should just be used to happening by now because it always does and always has, and now he _knows_ that Shiro wasn’t getting help after all, and he could’ve tried harder to do something for Shiro, and how can Keith still feel like maybe he loves Shiro if he’s upset about getting left again when _Shiro_ was going through _God only knows what with **Maurice**_ and no doubt Haxus… It’s so obvious as to be inarguable, _Shiro_ is the one who _really_ got hurt in that situation, Keith’s problems are his own burden, his own bullshit as always, and no one else should have to deal with them ever because _they don’t matter_ , it’s that fucking simple…

And he should back off of Shiro before he fucks up everything, Keith knows he should, because Shiro smiled like he meant it today and he deserves to have that, which is something he’s never going to have with Keith, but fuck his life, Keith wants to kiss that beautiful genius idiot on his perfect mouth again, he’d rather do that than go to class right now, even knowing what a waste of cash it is to skip, even knowing that Antok could just ask his husband if Keith was in class and Kolivan would know he skipped and then he’d get _concerned_ when he doesn’t _need_ to be, and if Shay actually noticed anything, she’d tell Allura, who would probably think that Shiro pulled some kind of stunt after all or more likely that Keith fucked things up on purpose, which maybe he should’ve done, now that he thinks about it, because there’s no way that this ends well for anybody, and Keith’s going to hurt Shiro or let him down again, and he’ll probably get hurt, and _none of this_ would’ve happened in the first place if Keith had just accepted Rolo’s cough syrup or come up with a better lie that Allura couldn’t catch him in or suffered through the noise riot without complaining, but he didn’t, and now everything’s a _broken fucking **mess**_ , it’s all so…

Keith doesn’t notice the tears stinging his eyes until they spill onto his cheeks. He digs his nails into his palms to no effect. He yanks his hands back through his hair, pulling on it harder than he needs to do, and gets nothing out of it but pain, which only makes the tears fall harder and faster. Breathing deeply gets him nothing but ragged, coughing sobs that claw their way out of his throat despite Keith’s best efforts to keep them down.

Back crammed against the post holding up the door to his stall, Keith sinks and folds in on himself but doesn’t let himself just hit the floor because fuck that, no. He’s kissed people he just met in men’s room stalls. He’s given blow-jobs in men’s room stalls and got one from Shiro, one time before his crush had really blossomed. This is not the first one that he’s cried in either, but Keith Sarkance Kogane has never sat on the floor of a men’s room stall, not even a relatively clean one… Maybe it’s not much to be proud of. Maybe it’s not worth it to hang onto as a low he hasn’t hit before. But still, he’d rather crouch here, shaking as he cries into his thighs and fails to _get his shit to-fucking-gether_ , no matter how many times he smacks his forehead on his knees.

When he finally finds nothing else to cry, or maybe just loses the energy to do it anymore, Keith has to blow his nose three times before he doesn’t feel congested. Most of the snot got on his jeans and not his face, which is no doubt going to look weird, but he does a half-assed job of drying it up and calls it good. He wipes the remaining tears off his face, and ignores his reflection while washing off his hands. He’ll look like a disaster now, most likely, and that’s what he wished for, so now, he has to deal with it.

Shuffling to the classroom, Keith keeps his head down. Thankfully, his usual seat with Shay is still open and all cried out, he feels the eyes on him but can’t give a fuck about them. As Antok clears his throat and picks up where his review left off, Keith glances at the clock. Twenty minutes late — dammit. He fumbles his notebook out of his bag, ready to jump right into scribbling down anything he might need to remember for Wednesday. He only pauses when a translucent pink plastic container gets set down on the table next to him.

Keith frowns at it bemusedly, and then at Shay. God, he knows she’s big on staying hydrated, but personal space is still a thing, last Keith checked? The only reason Shiro was all up in his while they were kissing, was that Keith wanted him to be there. But Keith trying to ignore the thermos makes Shay nudge it against his wrist. When he shrugs at her like _what do you want from me?_ , Shay takes his pen and scribbles at the top of his page: _I’m not sick and I’ve had this year’s flu shot. Drink it, you’ll feel better_ , followed by a lopsided doodle of a heart.

If he had more energy, Keith would question why Shay would even bother. But for now, he mouths a silent, _“Thank you”_ and takes a drink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So…… yeah. Hi, hello, this is my apology for taking this long to let Keith and Shiro kiss, then immediately ruining it by having Keith’s problems that, “totally are not real problems” bubble over because he’s stressed out and emotionally overwhelmed.
> 
> Obviously, I’m not sorry enough to have just not done this in the first place, but… Eh, win some, lose some.
> 
>  **Q:** Were the _Casablanca_ references in this chapter intentional?  
>  **A:** Yes. They are also significant, for reasons that are going to be shown in the near future, but they are NOT significant in a way where the parallels that Keith’s imagining have any actual basis in reality.
> 
> —The musical references, on the other hand, don’t mean much of anything beyond, “I like these musical references for these characters in this context, e.g. I don’t care how punk he is in this AU, I still think Shiro would love, ‘Relax’ by classic 80’s one-hit wonder Frankie Goes To Hollywood without a shred of irony.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so. Call this chapter the Season Three of this fic — not because of any particular similarities in the content, but because, much like how the original thirteen-episode season got split up, the original content of this chapter got divvied up into two sections.
> 
> But my reason for content-splitting is much simpler. Namely: Keith and Lance would not shut up, they deviated significantly from their original bullet-point outline, and in addition to being the scene that wouldn’t end, it got feeling like this stuff with them was more self-contained and tonally disjointed from the rest of the original chapter. So, dividing things just made sense to me.
> 
> Also, as usual, I am incredibly sorry for both Keith and Lance, for so many reasons, because hoo boy, do those two make some questionable life-choices today, and Keith in particular is really not at his best right now. He continues to be the King of Not Getting It, but…… progress, it is being made. Slowly, yes, but still.
> 
> I’m also sorry if there’s anything confusing about the formatting I used for the bits of Keith’s essay for Ryner. I’m probably going to be toggling that for a bit until I’m actually satisfied, but either way. For the sake of clarity: the sections are presented in the order that Keith writes them, which is not chronological or the order they would be in for the finished essay, but I liked it because it lined up chronologically with the action parts of this chapter and the next one.

Despite Keith’s expectations, the world does not end on Monday night and civilization does not collapse. 

Checking over his backpack before class on Tuesday morning, he kicks himself for even entertaining that presumptuous bullshit. Human civilization has survived far worse things than any of Keith’s very worst screw-ups — which the mess he’s put himself into with Shiro isn’t one of, no matter how Keith _feels_ about anything — and as far as the Earth in concerned, Keith is so insignificant that he might as well not exist in the first place. Playing on that level renders pretty much every individual life meaningless, unless they have enough money, power, or social status to affect any issues of global significance. Keith has none of those things, so of course the world isn’t going to end over anything between him and Shiro. 

Somewhat more perplexingly, Shiro texts while Keith is on his bus up to campus, without any explicit mention of the fact that Keith did not text him: _“Know you’re probably studying hard, just wanted to send you some encouragement”_ and two pictures follow. 

The first is a photo of a mostly-white dog who has brown spot over their right eye, another on one of their floppy ears, and their tongue hanging out so it almost looks like they’re smiling. Rover, probably, for all there’s a lack of silly hats, and he’s apparently splayed out on top of one of the humans in his life. Underneath Rover is the bottom of someone’s torso and a pair of toned, light-tawny legs in black boxer-briefs. As soon as Keith spots the tattoo of Maleficent’s dragon shape from _Sleeping Beauty_ , he blushes and nearly shoves his phone into his pocket. 

Not that Shiro doesn’t have nice legs, because he _does_. Moreover, they don’t have the worrisomely lean appearance that they sometimes had back in Chicago, where you sometimes couldn’t appreciate the muscle because it looked like that and bones were all that Shiro had. Now, though, his legs look healthy, and as ever beautiful, and Keith sighs in relief when the second pic comes through and provides something much less _tempting_ for him to stare at. Texting Keith a picture of his legs… Shiro must not have noticed that they were so visible in the shot. It would be just like him to focus too much on the adorable dog and forget to consider how his choice of shots might come off to people other than himself. Or maybe he knew how it might come off and didn’t care, because maybe he _wanted_ to be tempting. 

Thanks to that thought, Keith has to steady his nerves before he can even look at the second image Shiro sends him. 

But while the first picture was an almost certainly unintentional temptation that Keith doesn’t need to deal with, the second one is more perplexing. It’s a drawing in one of Shiro’s sketchbooks, recreating an image that Keith hasn’t seen since he was seventeen and sitting in what would be his last class with one of the only math teachers he never hated. But instead of any normal cat dangling from a branch and telling Keith, _“Hang In There!”_ , it’s Red — a different take on her from any of Shiro’s old drawings, but unless Shiro’s gotten in the habit of drawing other red lions lately, there’s no one else it can be. Her features are exaggerated — her eyes bigger than usual and her overall look slightly more cartoonish — but probably in the name of making her as cute as possible. In turn, that’s probably Shiro trying to give Keith a shot in the arm of moral support, falling back on his own appreciation for cute things, the same way that he did when he sent Keith cute animal memes back in Chicago. 

_“When did you get the black rose done?”_ Keith texts back after considering it for a moment, because he can’t tell which option’s worse, ignoring Shiro’s texts and making him feel like Keith doesn’t want to hear from him, or letting this carry on when there’s no way that any of it can ever end well for either of them. At least talking about Shiro’s tattoos is easy enough and it doesn’t necessarily mean anything. Well, it means that Keith looked at Shiro’s legs, but they were right there in the picture. 

Except that Shiro’s next text back reads, _“Huh? did Hunk tell you about that ink?”_

…Okay, maybe Keith is giving Shiro too much credit for planning and deviousness, right now. 

_“It was in the picture with Rover,”_ Keith shoots back at him, grateful that Shiro’s not here to watch him rolling his eyes. On the other hand, it means that he doesn’t get to see Shiro blushing and awkwardly reviewing things in his head before letting himself speak, but that might be for the best. Kissing Shiro before Thace’s class would be unideal, especially if Keith wound up crying in the bathroom afterward again. 

_“You didn’t exactly crop your legs out of the shot,”_ he adds when the **Read** pops up underneath his text but not any indication that Shiro’s typing something back. Before Keith can stop himself, he fires out another: _“Not how I expected to start my morning, but can’t argue with the view. Because the view looks really fun.”_

His brain catches up with his hands as soon as he hits send, and silently, slamming his phone against his thigh, Keith curses humanity for not yet figuring out how to unsend text messages. What if Shiro feels objectified, reading that. What if he thinks Keith is flirting when he doesn’t mean it. What if he _doesn’t_ think Keith’s flirting and thinks that he’s just being _nice_. What if Keith’s tripping too close to old things that would make Shiro try shit like faking sick to get out of dinner, like the first time he took Keith to Satomi’s for Christmas and Cousin Tatsuya said that Shiro looked, _“healthy,”_ which was a bad thing to look like, in Shiro’s mind, for reasons that Keith doesn’t entirely understand. When Keith gets a buzz a moment later, he has to close his eyes and fumble through tapping out his passcode by memory, so he can’t read the preview and talk himself out of looking at the whole thing, in case the message is coming from Allura or Shay or someone other than Shiro. 

It isn’t, and instead of the possible bad responses Keith’s imagination conjured up, Shiro’s sent a selfie and, _“My eyes are up here.”_

Which doesn’t quite merit a full-on sigh of relief, because there are so many things that Shiro could mean by that. Yet, he’s smiling in the selfie. He has his hair down, with a tousled look like maybe Keith caught him in the middle of trying to brush it out. But he’s also not in his apartment, now, or whatever he wears while lounging around there. He’s inside somewhere warmly lit, but on his left are stacks of books and on his right, the window shows a glimpse of the same sky Keith sees out the bus’s window, cold and pale grey but not exactly overcast. As far as Keith can tell, Shiro’s wearing his black hoodie again, unzipped enough to show off a snug-fitting violet henley that would leave little to the imagination, if not for Shiro’s sweatshirt being such a cock-block. Kurt Vonnegut’s tombstone design from _Slaughterhouse Five_ is outlined in white, with the words, _“Everything was beautiful and nothing hurt”_ splayed across Shiro’s chest. 

For once, the words match his smile perfectly, without any trace of the irony that they carry in the novel or the forced, _“barely keeping it together, but using irony to distract from it”_ pretense that Shiro had when he wore shirts with that exact design back in Chicago. That fact makes Keith frown, and he tries to shake off the thought that, maybe, Shiro is playing at something deeper because, for one thing, that wouldn’t be like him. For another, he probably grabbed the shirt because he liked it, not because he wanted to screw with anyone. Keith’s not clear on the timeline here, but according to the timestamps on the pics of Red and Rover, Shiro took the former half-an-hour before he sent it and the latter, yesterday evening. Maybe he meant to keep the shot of Rover to himself until he decided to send Red to Keith, then he forgot to send either photo until he got to work. 

As the bus comes up to a red light, Keith squints out at their surroundings. Alright, they’re at the midtown branch of the public library — he should still have three more stops before the one he wants at campus. Although this is even further off the mark from what he thought he’d do today, Keith nudges himself into the corner where his seat meets the wall, straightens up and shakes out his hair, and snaps a selfie of his own. It takes five more for him to make a face that doesn’t look completely stupid. He texts the magic one to Shiro with, _“Well, my eyes like what they see.”_

He means to tack on something else, but before he can decide where to take things, Shiro hits him back with, _“Your eyes look sleep-deprived. Still gorgeous, tho.”_

_“That’s putting it mildly. My eyes spent last night working on my stupid essay,”_ Keith sends him. 

After an entire stop passes by: _“You write great essays, never stupid ones”_

_“I mean the assignment is stupid. But the essay will be too, because the assignment sucks.”_

But that’s probably going to make Shiro feel like he has reason to worry, so Keith sends another follow-up, _“My advisor told me to try a creative nonfiction class. I went into it expecting In Cold Blood, Operación Masacre, or Midnight In The Garden Of Good And Evil. I got a bunch of David Sedaris wannabes who expect me to talk about my personal life all over an upper-level writing course and think it’s stupid to write about things that actually matter.”_

Shiro’s response comes quicker than expected, like he fired it off as soon as reading the text, _“Your personal life does matter ❤️”_

_“Not like Danny Hansford’s murder, the José León Suárez massacre, or what Dick Hickock and Perry Smith did to the Clutters.”_

Which feels a bit morbid as soon as Keith sends it off, so he adds, _“Not like the protest Shay put together when Dean Zarkon let that fuckhead who used to write for Breitbart come to speak on campus, or what happened when some of the conservative student groups tried to protest Shay’s right to organize her protest. I tried to write about that and got asked where my personal connection to it was which totally wasn’t the point of the story because it didn’t matter.”_

Shiro takes a moment before replying, _“So you never had the special interest in Truman Capote biographies, filled an entire five-subject notebook with thoughts about how his personal life and relationship with Perry Smith influenced In Cold Blood, or spent six weeks watching basically nothing but the two Capote biopics, the movie of the book, Casablanca, Plan Nine From Outer Space, and Scrubs reruns whenever Mark won rock-paper-scissors for the DVD player?”_

Keith frowns at his phone. _“That’s different.”_

_“Okay, what makes it different?”_ Even without seeing Shiro’s face, Keith can perfectly picture him making one of his sympathetic and oh-so-concerned faces, not exactly frowning while still visibly upset and worried about Keith while trying so hard not to be overwhelming about it. 

_“I was morbidly interested because I already liked Capote and the book, and it’s literary history. But who cares about my personal connection to Shay’s protest? That isn’t what really matters about the story.”_ …Okay, something still isn’t right here, and in light of how this conversation’s going, Shiro will probably misinterpret that text. 

Sighing, Keith taps out, _“I’m just saying, there are different levels of importance. If I could talk to dead people and got a once-in-a-lifetime interview with Marx and Engels about the Manifesto and Das Kapital and how Communist political philosophy has evolved and been perverted since they came up with it, the people in class would ask why I didn’t try talking to my Mom instead.”_

Swallowing thickly, Keith watches the ellipses that pop up while Shiro’s typing at him, and says a silent, aimless prayer of thanks that, no matter how much more annoyed with him Shiro _should_ be at any given moment, Shiro remains one of the only two people on the planet who don’t need to ask why Keith wouldn’t try to contact his Mom, if magic were real and he could talk to dead people. Unlike Keith’s idiot classmates, Shiro and Allura would never even consider asking Keith that. Whether or not they agree with his belief that she’s still alive somewhere, they understand it as much as they can, given that Shiro had a relationship with his Mom that he has real, conscious memories of and Allura’s mother is both alive and on good terms with her, Alfor, and Coran. 

Either way, Shiro’s ellipses keep going for a while, which is concerning. Keith’s phone doesn’t buzz again until he’s getting off at a stop that’s kitty-corner from the quad. 

_“I get not wanting to talk about your personal life with strangers, and I guess I’m biased about this? Between AA Tuesdays, NA Fridays, and my music, I end up airing my personal life often enough and see people being interested in it for different reasons, even if we don’t know each other, because most of the people hearing me talk at meetings or sing at shows don’t know me personally and I don’t know them, either.”_

Well, frankly, Shiro is also biased because of his own interest in Keith’s life, but Keith’s not going to bring that up right now. He’s going to sulk across the quad and head for Montgomery Hall and keep on reading. 

_“I get where you’re coming from, because despite all the evidence, I’ve felt like that too. I just don’t agree with the idea that your personal life isn’t worth writing about, or that there’s nothing in it that other people would find moving or interesting or even relevant to whatever bigger picture issue you want to talk about. Personal testimonies are often a great way to make those issues more easily accessible, and I know that you can write an essay like that. You could do it in your sleep.”_

Keith still has time to get to class, so he pauses by the bike rack outside the library and texts back, _“Yeah, but this weirdly quiet blue-haired girl and I wound up ducking into the same alley at the protest when it got messy and we didn’t know each other but we worked together to get through shit so I could find Shay and Allura, and she could find her orangey-pink and black-haired friends. But if I talk about that, doesn’t that distract from stuff like the freedom of speech debate or the politics?”_

By the time he’s heading into Montgomery Hall, his phone buzzes again, and Shiro tells him, _“It could, but it doesn’t have to. But since I know that you already know that, I feel like maybe you’re trying to distract yourself from the real reason why you don’t want to write about your personal life for class.”_

_“Mostly because it’s none of my classmates’ business,”_ Keith sends back before even thinking about it. While waiting for the elevator, he rushes to add, _“Anyway, class is starting soon or I’d send you something nicer than my dumb morning face.”_

Shiro’s last text buzzes in right as Keith gets to the desk that he regards as His: _“Nice try, but I always like seeing your face. But look at it this way: which part of Casablanca made you cry when I first made you watch it, the historical and political significance of World War 2 and its events, or Ilsa being torn between two men she loved?”_

_“I cried because the movie was sad and I was stressed about waiting for my GED scores,”_ Keith lies, because he knows that Shiro knows he’s lying and might find this funny instead of obnoxious. _“But if I had ever hypothetically cried about the romantic subplot, it would’ve been because Rick and Ilsa were in love but couldn’t be together without ruining each other’s lives.”_

Not that Shiro could possibly know how to properly guarantee that he gets the last word, but his next message doesn’t buzz until Thace is setting up at the head of the classroom. It’s another selfie — a bust shot; in it, Shiro smirks at Keith, a mix of fondness and skepticism, with his hair tied back again — and the accompanying text reads, _“My eyes think we’re both right, but also that you’ve got this and your essay will be great ❤️”_

Throughout class, Keith knows that he should probably pay better attention to what all Thace is saying. But after a few minutes, it becomes clear that the essay is what they’re going on about today, which is useless to Keith’s because he’s already done. He only doesn’t tune out entirely in case Thace decides to ask him something. Today’s class is an excuse to free-write for Ryner and hope that Keith stumbles into something personal enough that isn’t total garbage. If the world isn’t ending, he can’t risk murdering his GPA. 

*** * ***

> When I left Texas, I couldn’t carry that much with me. Very few people have ever had occasion to guess what I packed, but Shiro is one of the only two who guessed that I brought books. He didn’t have to ask if I had; he just asked which ones. We hadn’t seen each other in about five years when I showed up in Chicago. Back in Corpus Christi, Shiro had only really known me as his friend’s walking headache of a foster brother who got in fights and didn’t like most people. But still, he **knew** that there was no I way that I **hadn’t** brought books with me. 
> 
> So, I rummaged around in my duffel bag and showed them to him: beat-up copies of Capote’s  In Cold Blood, the Norton Critical of Frankenstein (1st edition), and Sylvia Townsend Warner’s Summer Will Show, which I’d had since before I was even old enough to think about reading any of them because they used to be my Mom’s. An equally beat-up copy of Preludes and Nocturnes, one of the collections of Neil Gaiman’s run writing the Sandman comics, and an anthology of twentieth-century American poetry that used to be my Dad’s. Weathered but slightly less beat-up copies of Matilda, The Witches, and Charlie and the Chocolate Factory that my Mom’s Aunt had bought for me before she died. My Aunt’s old copy of Midnight In The Garden Of Good And Evil, which was in remarkably good condition, considering how many times it’d been reread. A tenth-anniversary hardback of Gaiman’s American Gods that I’d saved up to get that past summer (a minor sticking point with Shiro, because I thought American Gods was better than Good Omens, Gaiman’s farcical collaboration with Terry Pratchett). And the paperbacks of The Bell Jar and Plath’s collected poems, her husband’s Birthday Letters, and John Gardner’s Grendel that I’d gotten for my last Christmas with my last foster family. 
> 
> Most people I ever meet assume that I’m stupid, and I guess I don’t give them many reasons not to, especially not once I open my mouth and usually insert my foot after a couple minutes. But Shiro wasn’t like that, never thought about me that way, not even when I told him that my last foster mom had gotten me the Seamus Heaney translation of Beowulf to go with Grendel and I thought about trying to sell it, but instead, I gave it to my foster sister because she enjoyed stuff like that with heroes and monsters and clear, obvious distinctions between them. Not that Beowulf isn’t important in the grand scheme of literary history or that Heaney’s translation sucked or anything? But I will always take Gardner’s arguably pretentious bullshit over a story where we’re supposed to feel like it’s totally cool for the hero and his people to seek vengeance for their murdered loved ones but Grendel can’t defend his home and his Mother can’t avenge her son because they’re monsters and that’s just not allowed. 
> 
> After hearing me go on about that, Shiro laughed a little and smiled and told me he’d been dying to have an actual intelligent conversation about books for ages now. 
> 
> “Mark’s great and he’s smart about all sorts of other things but literature’s not really his thing unless it’s Douglas Adams or Irvine Welsh,” he explained. “Most of what Ryou gets to read right now is STEM crap for class at MIT. One of my other friends, Matt? He’s a whiz with computers and sound-editing, great for a talk about comics or astronomy? But his taste in books is limited to sci-fi. Trevor is an acquired taste? Which is how he feels about most books. He’ll never love anything as much as Harry Potter or Stephen King. Ryou loves Stephen King more, but—” 
> 
> “But unless Ryou’s gotten body-snatched,” I chimed in, “not even Stephen King loves himself as much as Ryou loves him.” 
> 
> I didn’t know Shiro’s twin brother very well. But it wasn’t hard to miss his fanboy streak when he owned a VHS copy of a movie King had directed about a haunted murder truck and the worst thing Ryou’d ever say about The Tommyknockers was, “It’s not his best work, but it’s better than people give it credit for, especially with how out-of-his-mind on cocaine he was while writing it.” 
> 
> My joke wasn’t funny, but it made Shiro double over, laughing. When he recovered, he told me, “Anyway, the His Dark Materials books got Trevor’s interest up enough not to compare them all to Steve or JK Rowling? But it was iffy and with everything else written by human hands? Forget about it. Give him a copy of Carrie and move on.” 
> 
> “Why would you even compare Harry Potter to Harry Potter, that’s like, cruelty to books.” 
> 
> I don’t remember what the Hell I thought I meant by that, and I don’t think I actually knew at the time, either. It had only been a few days since Mark and Shiro had found me sleeping in the back of Mark’s car — which I technically hadn’t broken into, but only because they’d forgotten to lock it before leaving it in a parking garage while they went to a gay bar out in Chicago’s Lake View neighborhood. I imagine that I probably felt exceptionally clever at the time, but in all likelihood, I sounded like I was whacked out on actually getting a few decent nights’ sleep and eating decently for the first time in weeks, because I was. 
> 
> Either way, staying with Shiro as long as I did was never part of the plan, such as there was an actual plan. But the longer I stayed, the more we got to talk about books. Because Shiro wasn’t an asshole and didn’t need to worry about money in the same way as most of us, he was happy to share his personal library with anybody who wanted something to read, which I pretty much always did. Because he worked at a secondhand bookstore and still didn’t need to worry about money, he liked finding excuses to bring home something that he thought I’d like. 
> 
> “I know they look a little bit weird,” he’d say about copies of Marjane Satrapi’s Persepolis, David B.’s Epileptic, and Alison Bechdel’s Fun Home. “And okay, yeah, they are? But they’re good weird, and they’re weird in a way that I think you’ll like. Also, you’re probably the only person I know who understands the difference between graphic novel memoirs and serially-published comics, or who doesn’t think it’s pretentious to even talk about that.” 
> 
> “Augusten Burroughs isn’t really my thing,” he’d say, tossing me copies of Dry and Running With Scissors, bound together with black ribbon. “But I read Running With Scissors before seeing the movie and I dunno, I thought you’d appreciate the story in ways most people wouldn’t.” 
> 
> “Okay, I get that you like Mary Shelley better,” he’d say, handing me a bag that contained the Nina Auerbach-edited Norton Critical of Dracula and a copy of The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, “but I saw some other classic books that inspired classic movie monsters and thought, ‘Oh wow, who do I know who likes those?’” 
> 
> When I pointed out that he’d snuck in copies of Interview With The Vampire, The Vampire Lestat, and Queen of the Damned (the last of which had the poster from its disastrous movie adaptation on the cover), Shiro grinned bashfully and said that his boss hadn’t wanted those to stay in the store any longer than was necessary like he actually expected me to believe that, even knowing that his boss was what you’d call, “eccentric” — meaning that he was a bugfuck weirdo who mostly got away with it because he was wealthy, white, and impeccably genteel. 
> 
> When I didn’t buy a word, he shrugged and said, “Look, I know they’re totally trashy, but they’re trashy in a fun, self-indulgent way. If you don’t like them, Ryou still hasn’t given my old copies back since the Twilight movie got him into vampires, so it’s not like they’re going to waste.” 
> 
> Despite his high tolerance for things like Anne Rice and bargain bin sci-fi bodice ripper pulp novels, Shiro’s real favorite author was Kurt Vonnegut. On the one of the bookshelves in his room, he kept a hardback thesaurus between his Vonnegut paperbacks and everything else. All his copies had yellow, dog-eared pages and thoroughly cracked spines. Some had been taped up to keep them from falling apart (and even some of those were replacements for copies that had fallen apart). Many had had their margins lovingly scribbled in. At the time, a quick way to annoy him was to mention a trend where people wore shirts with the, “Everything was beautiful and nothing hurt” tombstone from Slaughterhouse Five without any apparent sense that, in the novel, this isn’t a happy statement but a bitterly ironic reflection on Billy Pilgrim’s life, which was overwhelmingly made of pain and ugliness, as he attempts to focus on the good moments in his life like the Tralfamadorians do with everything. 
> 
> According to Shiro, that understated rancor was why the line was brilliant. “Even if you don’t know the book or Vonnegut, there’s obviously something off about the line. We can’t have a world where everything is beautiful and nothing hurts, otherwise we’d never appreciate the beauty or the happiness. But it’s totally human to want an escape like that, because we can’t help it. It’s unhealthy and terrible for us, like it’s the other side of the coin from Lot’s wife looking back at Sodom and Gomorrah. Sometimes, wanting that escape might kill you, but the only way to get close to thinking like that for real, in the book’s mind, is to be a super-advanced alien. Or a traumatized veteran who’s trying to emulate a species of super-advanced aliens.” 
> 
> But for all the humanity of wanting that escape, Shiro held that, “None of these freaking hipsters would wear those shirts if they actually understood what the design meant. They’re only doing it to seem better-read when all they’ve actually read is the first part of Allen Ginsberg’s ‘Howl,’ the Cliff’s Notes for On the Road, and freaking Harry Potter.” 
> 
> So, imagine my surprise one afternoon when I got back my community college classes to find Shiro in his room with his acoustic guitar out and his laptop set up to record for him, wearing one of his own t-shirts with Vonnegut’s tombstone design. The shirt was black, with the design done in white, and according to what he’d said before I went out that morning, the song he wanted to finish today was meant to be a love song. Not that I expected a Shiro-penned love song to be particularly happy, but I didn’t see how, “Everything is beautiful and nothing hurt” could ever fit there without somehow undermining what he’d liked best about it in the book. 
> 
> “It’s all about how people misread the line, though,” he insisted, because he wasn’t recording yet and didn’t mind me asking questions. “People always want to take those words at face-value, even when it’s clearly ironic. Sure, it also kinda fits because people think love is always magical and healing and beautiful when it isn’t. But mostly, the shirt fits the song because of how it’s all messed up in false appearances and the things that people miss.” 
> 
> I thought it was a good thing that the shirt fit the song, because it fit looser on Shiro than it had been when I’d first stumbled back into his life. But saying shit like that could get him to clam up and get cagey, or make a big show out of how he was eating, “perfectly fine,” then disappear to the gym or go running for a few hours or, “mysteriously” get sick. At the moment, he seemed relatively sober and he was focusing okay, so I decided to let him win and pretend that I totally saw his point. Anyway, he let me perch in his window-seat like always and listen in while he got ready to shoot the video for his Youtube channel, even asked for feedback on his practice. 
> 
> “The vocals are giving me the most trouble?” he said, restlessly strumming a few bars of, “I Want To Hold Your Hand,” one of the first songs he’d ever taught himself to play. “Everything sounds okay enough, but not exactly right? I feel like I’m missing the mark.” 
> 
> I pulled one of my legs up to my chest and hoped that putting my chin on my knee made me look pensive and like I knew what I was talking about. “Well, ears never really hear our own voices right. So, you’re probably doing fine. What are you going for?” 
> 
> “Something kinda like Elliott Smith but gayer?” 
> 
> That answer was a good clue that, as stable as he seemed, Shiro was likely more intoxicated than I thought. Still not totally wasted, but when his music was involved, the less that he was on at any given moment, the more he could be more direct without getting prodded into it. Granted, these days, he was never completely sober. Sobriety for him meant headaches, crankiness, throwing up, and a host of other unpleasantness, usually treated by taking his pills or a shot of whatever we had on hand, with a preference for Cuervo. Sure, Mark and I realized that Shiro was detoxing — Mark had been a fan of House before losing his taste for both that show and Trainspotting over a cousin-who-was-basically-his-sibling’s struggle kicking opiates and Valium, and I’d seen a foster aunt with my first family hiding vodka in her flavored water and practically bathing in Guerlain Shalimar so no one would guess that the preacher’s wife was an alcoholic, while Bryce’s grandfather was even worse to deal with when Bryce’s parents didn’t let him have his pills — but Shiro had a thousand excuses that almost always sounded plausible enough. 
> 
> After some nudging, he clarified, “I want a whispery sound like Elliott Smith? Restrained, like choked up? Like I have to hold back or the full force of that raw emotion might literally kill me.” 
> 
> As uncomfortable as I got when he joked about death so easily, I agreed to listen for that. He did it fine through his last two practices and with my assurance, he started recording, introducing the song for his viewers as, “A gift for someone who doesn’t know how special he is.” By the time he finished, I would’ve bet that holding his feelings back was a likelier cause of death than anything to do with how powerful they might have been. 
> 
> Musically, it was my favorite song of his that I’d heard by then. Simple and understated, more so than usual for him, but the melody hit you like a punch in the stomach, even before you got to his trembling, breathy vocals and the way he sang like he was afraid of breaking something. But the lyrics, though? They were so heavy, I thought that they could kill us both. They were bare, stripped down like they’d refused to let Shiro dress them up in any of his usual metaphors and wordplay and pretty flourish. 
> 
> Shiro hated being forced to see a therapist. Shortly after Christmas 2011, his Aunt Satomi twisted his arm about it through a mix of fair enough concern over her nephew’s wellbeing and threatening to cut off both his access to late parents’ assets and Shiro’s regular payouts from the trusts that his parents and grandparents had set up for him and Ryou. According to Shiro, Satomi could do that, as the executor of those wills and estates, and she was serious enough to make good on that threat, but he didn’t have to be a good little patient. The only suggestion from Dr. Hall that he ever took to heart was that he could use his songwriting as a therapeutic outlet because he’d been doing that for years before he met her anyway. Sometimes, she gave him prompts, but even that wasn’t too far off from how he’d already done things. 
> 
> This new song had started with one of her prompts, though he never told me which one. Like all the others he’d come up with based on her exercises, it hit below the belt. As he sang about how easy was to miscommunicate and misread signs, my arms and shoulders tensed up like they do when somebody tries to touch me without warning. I clenched my hands around the windowsill during the verse about cracked façades and broken promises, and hugged both legs to my chest during the one about getting lost in everything he’d ever pretended to be, about feeling lost and hopeless now that he knew which way was up, about how he’d cried wolf too many times and hadn’t realized. On the bridge, he warbled about wanting so badly to believe in something, anything, that he’d rather fall apart than try to keep going on with nothing. I balled one hand up in the leg of my old jeans like it could keep me anchored so I wouldn’t faint or die. 
> 
> But the chorus was the worst part. Any time his voice threatened to break, it always happened while he was pleading with someone to set him free from this desire that kept hounding him. By the last of the four times that he sang through it, I clung to my leg because I thought that he might crack and I had no idea what I’d do if that happened. According to the lyrics, he needed an answer desperately because if he couldn’t find it, then maybe killing him would be the real kindness, and as I pressed my mouth against my knee, it occurred to me that he really might’ve meant that death wish. 
> 
> Begging for that sweet release because he couldn’t numb away his love, Shiro twisted up his face like it was killing him to keep singing in such a lukewarm whisper. Like he wanted to sound half-dead, but he’d overwhelmed himself and something else inside him wanted to fight to stay alive. This wasn’t the first time I’d sat in for one of his recording sessions, but I’d never had this kind of heavy, empty feeling in my chest before. I knew what his song meant exactly, because at that point, I’d been feeling it at him for months, and hearing Shiro put the words on it so eloquently felt like someone had knocked my insides out with a fucking sledgehammer. 
> 
> I don’t know if he sensed that he was affecting me or what, but as he sang the last, “Tell me, please, I need to know,” he broke one of his recording rules: he turned his misted-over eyes on me. 
> 
> Normally while making one of his videos, Shiro only let himself look at his laptop or his strings. He’d told me so before letting me sit in for the first time, out of some fear that I might take it personally if he seemed, “too focused.” If he wanted a reaction this time, then he got it. Making any noise while Shiro was recording? I couldn’t let myself do that. But my eyes spilled the tears onto my cheeks before I could even think that letting them out was a terrible idea, and once I’d started crying? There was nothing I could do to stop. 

*** * ***

After Antok’s exam on Wednesday, Keith feels mostly back to normal, in terms of his attitude toward the world and the likelihood of it ending. Strictly speaking, he doesn’t _want_ for that to happen — if there’s anything he can do to prevent that, he’d rather do it than not — and this brooding nihilism bullshit doesn’t help him any. You can glare at an unfinished essay and stew about the inevitability of death all you want, but that’s not going to get the essay written any more than you can sweet-talk a boulder into cleaning your room for you. 

Worse, this nihilism shit is boring and Keith’s probably acting like a petulant, teenage brat by indulging in it. Since it never completely goes away, Keith needs something to distract himself so maybe it won’t bother him quite as much. All of which is how he finds himself following Shay past the Dos Santos Memorial Theatre on the east end of campus, heading toward some local used music store where she’s a regular customer. According to her, Keith should be more than able to find a birthday present for Allura there that fits his price range and might actually surprise her for once. The shop has an extensive selection, well-organized, including all kinds of vinyl and CDs, and sometimes, if you get lucky, you might even find cassette tapes still. One time, she even found an old eight-track tape of Simon and Garfunkel’s _The Concert in Central Park_. 

“Not that I had the tech I needed to _play_ an eight-track tape, so I didn’t buy it,” she explains with one of her easy smiles that Keith never entirely understands. “But I thought it was pretty neat that they still _had_ eight-track tapes.” 

At the next crosswalk, she adds, “Plus, the staff there are all good people. The guy I dated before Allura used to work there… He doesn’t anymore, but one of his friends still does. He can be a bit of a handful, but he means well, and the ladies who work there are pretty great. The woman who owns the place is this ex-grungy punk rocker herself, but super-regal though. I think her old band used to be pretty big in Germany in the late eighties and early nineties. And I say, ‘grungy,’ but she wasn’t out of the Seattle scene or anything, it’s just that her band came up around the same time and had some similar influences. She still dyes her hair blue…” 

Nodding, Keith supposes that everything Shay’s telling him sounds way cool. He mostly isn’t lying, either; he just doesn’t know what to say about any of it. When they get to Mind Swish Wreck-Chords, Keith keeps it to himself that the place looks like somebody gave up halfway through making a hole in the wall and he’s pretty sure he’s heard the, _“wreck-chords”_ wordplay before, for all he can’t remember where. 

Wandering inside, though, is like Dorothy stepping into Oz. Huge bookshelves filled with 12-inch LPs line the walls along the edges of the shop, stretching up high enough to need attached rolling ladders like at the campus library. Practically every piece of shelf-less piece of wall is plastered with old photos and band posters. On a quick glance alone, Keith makes out, by names or a miracle of facial recognition on his part, Blondie, Berlin, Violent Femmes, The Cure, Siouxsie and the Banshees, Pansy Division, Hole, The Runaways, The B-52’s, Oingo Boingo, Mudhoney, Meat Puppets, Dead Or Alive, The Sisters of Mercy, Melissa Auf Der Maur, and rather perplexingly (though not off-puttingly), Rufus Wainwright, Nina Simone, Judy Garland, and Selena Quintanilla-Pérez. The last four posters hang in a line right behind the cash register, where a chubby girl with aquamarine pigtails and a navel ring shaped like a butterfly leans against the counter. Snapping her gum, she calls out to welcome them to the store today. Sprawled out before Keith and Shay are aisles upon aisles of cabinets are all full to bursting with CDs and 45”s. 

Keith’s appreciating the army of placards labeling the different sections by their genres when somebody crows, “ _Shaaaay!_ ” 

The abrupt loud noise is bad enough. The flash of blue and gray is worse enough, as someone rushes over to hug Shay around the shoulders and energetically babbles with her about Hunk says, “hi” this, and Hunk hopes you’re coming to Battle of the Bands that, and oh, man wait up a second because Hunk made some of his peanut butter cookies, there’s a container of them in the backroom if you want some. But Keith groans as that someone pulls back from Shay and gives Keith a view of his spindly limbs and the long-sleeved t-shirt he’s wearing under his, _“FREE KESHA”_ crop-top. 

At least Lance frowns just as deeply as Keith is doing, so Keith doesn’t have to feel too bad. 

“Oh, I’m sorry, Shay, is this guy _bothering_ you?” Lance says, looking dead at Keith. 

Keith his arms over his chest and squares his shoulders. “This guy has a _name_. And he knows that you know it.” 

“Well, _this_ guy doesn’t give a cheese right now.” Huffing, Lance blows a longish piece of hair off his face. “So, how about you do me a favor, Mullet: let me talk to my best friend’s ex-girl, and either scram or shut your freaking quiznak.” 

“You’re not using that word correctly!” 

Once he hears himself, Keith groans and rolls his eyes more at himself than at Lance. Yeah, Lance deserves it too, but for the love of God, Keith sounds like every asshole counselor he ever had who got on his case about picking the wrong words when he was stressed out and forgot most of his vocabulary. But he can’t take it back, and he’s dug himself deep enough for Lance and Shay to furrow their brows at him as if he’s grown a second head that’s singing opera and he’s probably not going to make them stop by standing here silently. 

So, Keith sighs and explains, “‘Quiznak’ is an Altean language profanity that doesn’t have an _exact_ translation into English. But it’s very strong and approximately used in the same way that people can use, ‘fuck’ without meaning anything literally sexual. Because, ‘quiznak’ doesn’t have _sexual_ connotations so much as violent, destructive, and dehumanizing ones. Which is way worse than sexual _anything_ to the Altean people because, historically, their dominant cultural attitudes have praised, like, respecting sex and using violence only as a last resort.” 

“…Huh,” Lance says. “Here I thought it was a word some random old guy just made up.” 

“Nope. It’s from the Altean people. First recorded use in their written history is _way_ old, like, it’s older than _Beowulf_ , but don’t expect most Western linguists and historians to acknowledge that because it might challenge their ideas about the supremacy of English language and culture, even though the English language is a quiznakking _dumpster fire_ , and…” Keith trails off as Lance and Shay’s joint staring makes him abruptly realize how much he’s info-dumping and how little either of them likely cares. 

Slouching in on himself, he mumbles, “Sorry, I’ll let you two talk,” and darts away down an aisle. 

Once he’s gotten far enough away to stop feeling like Lance is still glaring at him, Keith ducks out of his aisle of choice and moves along the bookshelf instead, thumbing through all the LPs to see if anything sticks out. Getting Allura music for her birthday sounded like a good idea when Shay proposed it — Allura’s often on the lookout for new stuff to listen to, and the prices here definitely won’t break Keith’s budget, especially since he didn’t have to buy his own drinks at Galaxy Garrison’s show — but as he’s confronted by all these names he’s never heard of or only dimly recognizes, Keith realizes that, as usual, he himself is the obvious flaw in an otherwise solid plan. Some of the more “classic” names (Led Zeppelin, Bonnie Raitt, Elton John, Barry Manilow, Lynyrd Skynyrd), he actually knows, but also knows that Allura wouldn’t like or already has in her collection. 

Besides, Keith wouldn’t even subject _Lance_ to Lynyrd Skynyrd. He’d rather make Shiro pick broken glass out of his hand again because he punched another jukebox than force _anybody_ to endure another round of, “Free Bird” or “Sweet Home Alabama.” 

Without a clue what else to do, Keith decides to try looking at album covers and reading over the track-lists. True, he may be only two steps off from _literally_ judging a book by its cover, which might well prove itself a recipe for disaster, but with how many of these bands he’s never heard of or can only place as, _“Oh yeah, didn’t they have that one song with the chorus about the things,”_ he’s also not sure what else to _do_. As he tries pawing through the CDs instead, he passes by a slightly-built girl with cool undertones to her light brown skin, a lavender collar necklace with plastic spikes, and a fluffy, hot pink undercut. If not for the bust of Billie Holiday tattooed on her bicep and the lanyard she’s wearing with an employee name-tag (identifying her as Luki), Keith probably would’ve pegged her for about fifteen. 

Vaguely, it occurs to him that he could ask her or the girl at the counter for some help, but Ms. Mermaid Pigtails is probably stuck working the register, and Luki Pink-Locks looks kinda busy with… uh, well, she sure is busy with _something_. Keith can’t tell what it _is_ , but she’s determinedly flicking through one container’s rows of CDs and groaning every time she finds one that she apparently feels a need to shuffle somewhere else. So, Keith leaves her to it and ambles forward on his own. With a few deep breaths, he turns back to the 12-inch LPs and tries to take things more slowly, letting Shiro’s voice mutter in the back of his head, _Patience yields focus…_

Unfortunately, Keith isn’t at this for too long before a ladder clatters into his left arm. When he looks up from the track-list on an album from some metal-looking band he can’t recall if he’s heard of before, Lance is right there, arching an eyebrow like Keith owes him something. 

“ _Soooooo_ …” he drawls. “How does somebody like _you_ know somebody awesome like _Shay_?” 

“We go to school together, we’ve shared a lot of classes, and she’s dating my best friend.” Keith doesn’t allow himself to roll his eyes, this time. It’d take more energy than Lance is worth and Keith doesn’t want to give him that satisfaction. “How do _you_ know Shay?” 

“Uh, I already _told_ you, Mullet: she used to go out with _my_ best friend.” Lance cocks a hip and folds his arms over his chest. But before he can give Keith the _undoubtedly_ witty rejoinder building up on his tongue— 

“Ugh, _Lance_ , do you _have_ to flirt with every moderately cute customer who gets within arm’s length of you?” Although her arms are increasingly full of jewel cases, Luki shoots Lance and Keith one of the most unimpressed expressions Keith has ever seen on anybody. “Luxia already told you off about that once today, she’s not gonna be happy if she has to do it _again_.” 

“Hey, I’m _helping_ a customer who looks confused, _okay_ , Luki? Y’know, which is part of my _job_?” 

Once he’s done groaning at her, Lance gives Keith a huge fake smile that bares all of his teeth. Straining at his lips like it wants to split his face in half, this expression goes beyond the usual customer service smile into territory that reminds Keith, on one hand, of a hungry shark, and on another, of his own attempts at customer service smiles whenever he’s worked in retail before. 

“So, what brings you into the shop today?” Lance says without bothering to hide the stress. 

Keith shrugs. “My best friend’s birthday is next week. I can’t get her _much_ , but she likes music and Shay said that you guys had fair prices and a lot of stuff to choose from.” 

Lance wrinkles his nose at the LP in Keith’s hands. “So, your friend likes black metal but she doesn’t already _own_ a copy of _De Mysteriis Dom Sathanas_?” 

At Keith’s utter confusion (both at what the Hell Lance is talking about and the fact that he’s doing it so eloquently), Lance shrugs. “What? I like pop and punk and pop-punk best, but Mayhem is, like, the biggest of deals in black metal and their first album is a freaking _classic_. Also, it’s a couple months older than me, and that’s just going by the official release date, ‘cause they recorded it for a few years, then had to delay releasing it when the singer shot himself and the guitarist got murdered by a former member who totally went off the deep end and got into this weird-ass white nationalist strain of pagan revivalism while he was in prison? I mean, it’s hard for _me_ to take what I’ve read of his shit seriously when he used to call himself _Count Grishnackh_ all totally in earnest, but stupid stage name or not, he’s still a total racist ass-hat.” 

For all he seems to realize that he’s been babbling again, Lance doesn’t seem embarrassed by it. In the face of Keith’s furrowed brow, he just shrugs and says, “ _What_? I _like_ music” as though it explains literally anything about what he’s been going on about. 

“…Uh, is black metal, like? Especially _different_ from Metallica and Judas Priest? Because that’s the metal that I know the best?” Keith could probably find a better question than that, or at least one that might be more helpful. But they only need to keep this up until Lance can get off the hook from Luki. “I don’t even know Metallica that well, pretty much just their big songs? And I guess I know Judas Priest _better_ , but mostly ‘cause Shiro used to like them and get a big chip on his shoulder about some metal fans being homophobic and some other gay guys bashing metal when Rob Halford is gay _and_ some kinda metal music godfather, so…” 

Keith trails off as he peeks over Lance’s shoulder, then sighs in relief. “Okay, you’re in the clear,” he says, taking extra care to look Lance in the eye. “No more eavesdropping coworkers. You can leave me alone now.” 

Except it’s apparently Lance’s turn to straighten up and square his shoulders. “Funny you should mention _Shirito_ …” he says, and makes Keith choke back a shudder, lest Lance think he can actually get to Keith. (Well, he _can_ , but that doesn’t mean Keith has to let him _know that_.) 

Apparently, he expected Keith to give him more of a response, or so Keith guesses based on how Lance’s shoulders droop when Keith only shrugs at him. Narrowing his eyes, Lance clarifies, “‘cause I heard that you two have been _kissing_ , huh? And I also heard that you’re the one who _started_ the kissing, but _Shiro’s_ the one who’s started all the texting you since that kissing happened.” 

“Not that it’s any of your _business_ , but I was studying for a _midterm_.” Glaring at Lance, he slides the Mayhem album back in with the others and inches down the shelf in search of something else. Black metal might be up Allura’s alley, but the history with that particular option might strike her as too morbid. “And Shiro knows that, too. _And_ he hasn’t held it against me, so I don’t think that _you’re_ allowed to, either. Mostly because it’s _**not** your business_.” 

“Okay, how about we agree to disagree about this,” Lance says, not entirely snapping but with an impatient edge to his voice. “You like Shiro. Shiro likes you. But _you_ have been gone up out of his life for a good, long time—” 

“Uh, why would we have to agree to _disagree_ about that? That is all factually accurate.” 

Lance frowns and slouches as though it’s taking too much energy to talk to Keith _and_ stand up straight. “Didn’t your mother ever teach you not to interrupt people when it’s their turn to talk?” 

“Did _yours_?” It’s a fair enough question, if you ask Keith. But Lance seethes at him, so Keith explains, “I’m not trying to insult your mother. I’m sure she’s a great person who did everything right by you, and she probably did the best she could, and it’s not her fault that you and me don’t get along.” 

When that still doesn’t make Lance stop glaring like he remains unsatisfied, Keith sighs. “Okay, this is even _less_ your business than what’s up with me and Shiro, but all I have of _my_ Mom is a couple books, an old Bowie knife, and her family name on my birth certificate. I have no quiznakking _idea_ what she tried to teach me about manners before she disappeared. _Satisfied_ with that answer, _Lance_?” 

Frowning deeply, Lance pauses but there’s something soft in his expression that makes Keith want to punch him, then throw up. Jamming his hands into his pockets, he tells himself to _calm down_ because, if nothing else, there’d be no satisfaction in and nothing to gain from punching Lance. It wouldn’t feel good right now because he isn’t on his guard and hitting him would too easy. He isn’t coming at Keith, so it’s not self-defense, which removes any semblance of a good excuse. Plus, when Lance no doubt told Shiro, Keith would likely burn whatever bridge is left between them because Lance is Shiro’s friend now and Shiro doesn’t let people hurt his friends, when he can help it. Still, that confused and slightly sad, twisted up and condescending sort of look is _exactly_ why Ryner and her entire class can shove it with their desire to peek into Keith’s life and paw around in its gross details like some supermarket checkout gossip magazine. 

And right now, it earns Lance a light shove at the shoulder as he starts spluttering something that sounds like it might have dreams of becoming something genuinely contrite. “ _Shut up_ ,” Keith hisses. “I don’t want your bullshit apology and I don’t _need_ your fucking _pity_. You can keep them.” 

“I wasn’t _giving_ you any pity!” Lance snaps, but manages to keep his voice down. “I didn’t know about what happened to your Mom, I just wanted to say I’m sorry for kicking that up! And I meant it, okay? I don’t know what I’d even _do_ without my Mami in my life, I can’t imagine, so I’m _sor_ —” 

“What did I _just_ say about _apologizing_ to me.” Very dimly, something in the back of Keith’s mind tells him that he’s being at least moderately unreasonable and that Lance probably doesn’t deserve his outrage at the moment. Because yeah, Lance went somewhere that he shouldn’t have gone, but it’s not really _him_ that Keith’s angry with. So, Keith takes a deep breath and sighs and tries to focus on how Shiro wouldn’t appreciate Keith fighting with his friends. 

“Look, we obviously have a conflict of personalities and that’s fine,” Keith tells Lance, probably not keeping his voice as even as he thinks it sounds. “But both of us mattering to Shiro doesn’t mean we _ever_ need to deal with each other. Leave me alone and I’ll stay out of your way.” 

By way of making his point, Keith scoots down the bookshelf and stops when his fingertips find an OBCR of _Phantom of the Opera_. 

Not one to leave well enough alone, Lance trails after him again and says with a huff, “Yeah, if you think we can really do that _without_ making Shiro feel like he’s stuck in the middle between us and stressing him out in ways that _nobody_ deserves? Then I dunno what to tell you, ‘cause it sure sounds to me like you’re only thinking of _yourself_.” 

“Well, I’m _trying_ to think about my best friend and her birthday present, but _someone_ …” Keith arches both eyebrows and jerks his head at Lance. “…doesn’t want to let me _do that in peace_.” 

“You _know_ that isn’t what I meant, _Keith_.” 

Despite himself, Keith knots his brow and lets his mouth drop open, hearing Lance call him something other than, ‘man’ or, ‘Mullet.’ He regrets it as soon as he sees Lance’s smug, self-satisfied smirk like, _Aha, I got your attention after all, my, my, how the tables have turned_ — and unfortunately, as he really considers Lance’s points, Keith can’t deny that they’re completely valid. It’s like Allura’s original idea about texting Shiro to keep the lines of communication open between Keith and Galaxy Garrison, just slightly altered for the context. Maybe Keith doesn’t need to go on weekend excursions to the mall with Lance or road-trip to Cedar Point with him and sleep in the car together because the hotels are too expensive. But if they can’t at least deal with each other better, then Shiro _will_ feel like he’s stuck in the middle and despite the fact that he shouldn’t even need to deal with this, he might well decide that it’s his fault that Keith and Lance don’t like each other. 

If he blames himself for things that aren’t even his responsibility much less his fault, then it’ll be one more stressor on Shiro’s shoulders — and an unnecessary one that would very much be Keith’s fault, since Lance is putting in the effort and actually _trying_ to avoid this outcome. 

Half-grumbling and half-sighing, Keith slumps against the bookshelf. “You’re right,” he says, with his eyes fixed on the floor instead of Lance. “So, uh… As you were _saying_? Before you started running your mouth off about my Mom?” 

It’d be fair for Lance to point out that he wasn’t _really_ doing that, but he doesn’t. He just leans his side into the shelf beside Keith, and tells him, “All I wanted to say was that you’re trying to do _something_ with one of my best friends, which sorta _makes_ you my business, whether you like it or not.” Humming, Lance considers this, then adds on, “You’re not my business in a way where I’m gonna _interfere_ , exactly? I mean, I don’t like you, but part of trusting Shiro means _I’ve_ gotta suck that up and respect his decisions, which I _do_ —” 

“Are you trying to ask me what my _intentions_ with him are?” Keith cuts in before he can think to stop himself, because the more Lance keeps going on, the more Keith’s digging his nails into his palm, which hurts and isn’t even keeping him grounded like it should. “Look, it’s fine if you are. But I’d rather you spare me the dissertation and just be upfront about it.” 

“Okay,” Lance says evenly and with a shrug. “What are your intentions with my friend?” 

……Well. Alright then, Keith walked right into this. 

Granted, he didn’t _expect_ for Lance to take him up on that idea — but still, Keith walked right into it. None of the retorts he’d been getting ready even remotely work anymore, since they were based in Keith’s assumption that Lance would get angry or defensive or tell him to go screw himself. But at least Keith can think of worse fates than hunching in on himself just a bit further and think about his answer more than he expected. 

Keith’s silence drags on long enough for Lance to start humming something that sounds like the cave theme music from _Super Mario Bros_. But after a while of quiet consideration, he manages to clear his throat. Once he has Lance’s attention back, Keith forces himself to look up and meet Shiro’s annoying, obnoxious bassist friend in the eye. 

“I don’t completely _know_ what my intentions are with Shiro, okay?” Keith admits, despite every fiber of him that screams out to shut his trap and stop being a goddamned tattletale. What he’s supposedly ratting out, Keith has no idea, but there’s a tight, sinking feeling in his chest like he’s breaking the confidence of someone who trusted him. It’s making him want to look at the floor all over again, like Lance can see right through him and might run home to tell Shiro that Keith is just sick and _wrong_ and _**broken**_ and he should kick Keith out like a dog you can’t afford to feed because the last thing that Shiro needs right now is anything the keeps Keith in his life. 

But Lance is being uncharacteristically quiet, waiting as if he actually _understands_ that Keith is putting in considerable effort and trying to make himself say something difficult. Even if he’s only doing it because it’s what _Shiro_ would want from him, Keith’s grateful. 

“I don’t know what my intentions are because it all depends a lot on _him_ ,” Keith goes on, feeling no more capable of doing this than he did before but knowing that he _has_ to suck it up and make this happen, unless he particularly _wants_ for Lance to go put a headshot in whatever Keith might have with Shiro. “It depends on what he wants, and what he _needs_ , and what’s _best_ for him. And I don’t know what any of those things are because I’m not _him_ , but—” 

“Yeah, but _you’re_ the one who asked to kiss him after your little date on Monday, right?” Lance points out, giving Keith a Look like he can see right through him, or at least like he wishes that he could. “So you can’t act like you don’t want _anything_ for yourself here or whatever—” 

“Of course I _want_ things from Shiro, dumb-ass. I never said I _didn’t_.” As he hugs himself and tries to shake off the sensation like he’s back to being thirteen and worrisomely skinny and choking down his crush on Heather Wilson because he knew how much her home-life sucked and he knew that she only saw him as a friend. 

That tangled, messy feeling doesn’t completely leave him, but Keith makes himself go on, “But it doesn’t really _matter_ what I want, does it. I mean, partly, I’m feeling confused about what I want — which Shiro is _completely_ aware of, by the way, because I told him about it on Monday? So, I am not deliberately _misleading_ him or _leading him on_ or whatever thing you might be thinking—” 

“Uh, mostly I was thinking, ‘Oh shit, he has pretty eyes, well, Hunk’s are prettier, but nobody in the entire _world_ has prettier eyes than Hunk, oh shit, Lance, focus, focus, _focus_ ’?” Lance shrugs and a little hint of pink creeps onto his cheeks. “I mean, okay, I don’t like you and I’m protective of my friends? But I’m not a _monster_ or anything, and I _get_ not being sure of what you want.” 

“Yeah, no, I’ve met some _real_ monsters in my time, and you’re nothing like them.” Keith huffs, taking advantage of this brief shift in conversation to get a goddamn break from _looking Lance dead in the eye_. “I never thought you were a monster, Lance, just kind of a pain in the ass.” 

Lance purses his lips and nods. “That’s fair. Anyway, Pidge actually likes me and she’s called me stuff that’s ten times worse.” 

Keith has no idea what to do with that information or with the unreadable half-smile that Lance gives him, so for now, he shrugs and drags his gaze back up. “Look, I don’t know how much Shiro has or hasn’t told you about us or what happened, but…” _But he’s nowhere near as mad at me for my part as he **should** be_. “You know about Maurice? At least that he existed and was a monster and he put Shiro through Hell and then-some?” 

“I know that calling him a monster is probably _really_ offensive to _actual_ monsters, yeah…” Still, Lance is squinting at Keith like he can’t tell where this is going and wants Keith to get to the point, and might be hoping that the point isn’t what he thinks it might be. 

“Has Shiro told you what his _arrangement_ was with Maurice?” Keith hates calling it that, because it makes the whole thing sound less awful than it was, but Shiro always used that word and it’s better than some of the other alternatives. 

“If you mean the part like, ‘Screw around as much as you want, but fall in love with nobody because grrrr argh blargh, I’m a giant quiznakking bag of douche-cheese and I think that I own you and your loyalty belongs to _me_ ’?” Lance shudders, sticking his tongue out of his mouth and making a sound like he’s trying to fake sick to get out of work. “Then yeah, I know about that.” 

Taking a deep breath, Keith nods. “Well… You were right. On Saturday. About me. And Shiro’s so-called _arrangement_ with Maurice is why.” 

Strictly speaking, Keith doesn’t _mean_ to give Lance enough room to get a word in edgewise. But as Lance gapes at him and screws up his face in something like offense mixed with recognition, Keith goes cold again. He can’t make himself keep looking at Lance for long, not when eye contact’s making Keith feel like he wouldn’t mind if the earth swallowed him up. Ending because he can’t get his shit together? That’s not fair on everybody else who’s living their lives and happy or at least has something going for him. But at least Keith could _not be here_ because then, he couldn’t ruin— 

“What the _chunks_ are you talking about?” Lance interjects, shaking Keith out of his own thoughts so hard that Keith almost wants to thank him. “Dude, I _know_ that I don’t know the whole story here? But how do those things even _kinda_ fit together? How do you get from Coño Maurice being an abusive dick who basically kidnapped Shiro to, like—” 

“It doesn’t _matter_ how I got there. I’m _**agreeing** with you_ , okay? Can’t you just take the win?” Which would be a great retort if Keith hadn’t been the one to bring up that connection in the first place. Balling a fist up in some of the fabric at his elbow, Keith doesn’t let Lance point that out: “Look, what matters is that you were right. I _don’t_ deserve to be with Shiro. I don’t deserve him and I know that, even if I’m not certain of what _he_ wants, exactly. I know it because of things involving his _arrangement_ with Maurice. Even if I’d _ever_ deserved to be with him, then after that, I wouldn’t… And after how I handled things, I don’t… It’s just, I’m not…” 

“Hey, man…” Lance says, probably trailing off because he _wanted_ to say something nice and now can’t quite get his mouth around the words. “I mean? Maybe it’s just me and who am I — well, I’m somebody who cares about Shiro but not anyone who knows what all really happened in Chicago, that’s who — but I mean? I don’t think it’s really your call about _deserving_ him or not, like? Shiro’s the one making that choice, so that’s kinda _his_ call, right? I mean, if _Shiro_ thinks that you deserve him, then—” 

“Except he _**doesn’t**_ think that, you idiot! Don’t you _get_ that?” With a half-hearted apology for snapping so much, Keith sighs and drops his eyes again so he won’t have to let Lance’s pity kick him in the stomach. “Look, just because Shiro indulged me after lunch on Monday, it doesn’t _mean_ anything. It was only a kiss.” _And maybe it meant the world to me, but so what? It can’t **mean anything** about us overall because he doesn’t feel like that about me and he never did._

_But, fuck, this probably sounds like I’m blaming Shiro—_ “It’s not his fault or anything that he did wrong, like? I don’t want to ruin your friendship with him, so please understand: Shiro was upfront about _everything_ from the beginning. His arrangement with Maurice, what he’d promised to stand by, the fact that nothing like that could ever happen between us… It isn’t even like he’s _using_ me because he’d never do that to someone, we just… The first time we _really_ kissed each other, we _agreed_ to certain things, like how anything we did with each other was harmless fun but nothing _romantic_ and…” 

Keith clenches his arms tighter around himself and makes himself look at the point between Lance’s now because he can’t deal with full eye-contact at the moment. “And I was the one who agreed to that, then fucked it up. Which was bad enough _without_ the whole Maurice factor, but ten times worse when you add that part back into everything… And my original intention _now_ was to pretend this wasn’t happening and Shiro _wasn’t_ back in my life, and the lead singer of your band wasn’t somebody who I… But well, since I listened to my best friend instead and _obviously_ didn’t stick to that, I’m just like…” 

Shaking his head, Keith groans. Conversations like this, he’s quite certain, are what Sartre _should_ have meant when he said Hell is other people. “What I keep feeling like I want? I’m never gonna get and that’s okay. I’m used to this. So, I’ll take whatever Shiro wants to give me. When the time comes, I won’t stand in the way of his happiness.” Another sigh and Keith can’t do this whole _looking at Lance’s stupid face and his fucking **pitying** expression_ thing anymore, so he glances around in search of Shay. 

“Whoever Shiro wrote that, ‘it’s killing me when you’re away’ song about…” Keith says. “If he’s still even remotely in the picture, then I hope he figures out how lucky he is soon. If he’s not, I hope Shiro eventually moves on from that asshole like he deserves to do and finds somebody new. So he can finally be _happy_ and stop _wasting his time_ with me.” 

Even though he hasn’t spotted Shay anywhere, Keith shoves himself off the shelf and tries to skulk away. He’s fairly certain that he hears Lance groan as though he might actually die, then splutter like he can’t believe what he’s wandered into this time, and then spit out a string of curses or childproofed cussing that’s split between English and Spanish with a periodic _quiznak_ thrown in just because he likes that word. But whatever. As long as Keith doesn’t have to deal with Lance, he can swear however the fuck he wants. 

Except, true to form, Lance refuses to grow up and just leave well enough alone. While Keith’s back in the corner, checking out a shelf full of Leonard Cohen to see if they have any of Allura’s favorites on vinyl, he hears the increasingly familiar sound of Lance loudly clearing his throat. When Keith determinedly keeps looking at the tracks on _Songs from a Room_ , Lance pushes at his shoulder. Keith counts to fifteen in his head and sighs, setting his jaw and rereading the list of songs; Lance _groans_ about how he _knows_ that Keith can hear him, so stop acting like he’s the tutu-wearing elephant that won’t get off your couch and pay attention to him already. 

That analogy, at least, makes Keith wrinkle his nose and blink at Lance bemusedly. “Do? …Uh. D’you mean, ‘the elephant in the room’?” 

“I mean exactly what I said and that’s completely not the freaking point!” The real miracle here might be that Lance actually has a conscious point while looking so annoyed. But as he steps back out of Keith’s personal space and folds his arms across his chest, Lance says, “Hey, man — _Keith_ , hey. Think about this for real, man. How do you _know_ who Shiro wrote that song for? Do you know that for sure and if so, _how_ do you know it.” 

Keith slouches, gaping slightly. “Does it _matter_? I know who I _want_ him to have written it for, but he _didn’t_ , so—” 

“But how. Do you. _**Know** that_.” Lance is looking at Keith so intently that it almost makes Keith’s skin crawl. He’s putting so much stress on his words that it makes tension knot up in Keith’s back. Yet, he can’t deny, Lance is trying to impart some knowledge that he deems important enough to bother taking the time to break it down for Keith like this. He even reaches for Keith’s shoulders, but pauses instead of grabbing and pulls his hands back when Keith shakes his head, which says more about how serious Lance is than the fact that he probably wanted to shake Keith — which, in turn, probably nobody would blame him for. 

Which, in its own turn, does nothing more than remind Keith how _unnecessary_ this conversation should’ve been. Watching Lance for any sudden movements, Keith sets the LP back where he picked it up, propped against the other records there so he can get it back when this is over. He inches further into the corner and braces himself, back to the shelf and curling his hands against the weathered wood, even though he knows it isn’t hiding him or doing anything to make Lance leave already. Goddammit, getting Allura’s birthday present should not have involved a run-in with Lance. If that _had_ to happen, then it _should_ have gone Keith’s way, the same way that he got on Saturday night: he snaps at Lance until Lance gets pissed off and storms away. 

But this? It makes no sense. Even the sniping at each other doesn’t scan correctly because Lance could verbally kick Keith so much harder than he’s done today. Glaring at him doesn’t get Keith any explanation, either; all it gets is a frown so limp and sad, it makes Keith’s body tremble as if actually might be sick. Why is this happening to him? Why is Lance even _doing this_? They _do not like each other_. Tolerating each other for Shiro’s sake is the _best_ that they are ever gonna get, and Lance doesn’t need to worry what happens after that, because obviously, Shiro can get by just fine without Keith in his life. Sure, he’s had ups and downs like anybody, some of which apparently included dating Lotor, but Shiro’s gone for years without Keith and he’s been fine for all of them (excluding the time with Maurice because if getting trapped in a modern day isolated tower like a fucking bald Rapunzel doesn’t constitute, “major extenuating circumstances,” then _nothing_ in this world does). 

He’s built up a life that Lance is part of, so whenever Shiro finds his true Prince Charming, Lance will get to be there for it. Considering what Lance has probably seen Shiro through by now — sobriety and fighting for it, Lotor and breaking up with him, panic attacks and God only knows what else — Lance _deserves_ to be there for Shiro when he finally finds the right moment with the right guy, when he can do Kurt Vonnegut proud, take a look at his life, and smile, and say in earnest, _“If this isn’t nice, I don’t know what is.”_

Keith doesn’t even deserve to be digging his fingers against the bookshelf, justifying himself to Lance when he and Shiro won’t ever be an _anything_. Keith’s pretty sure it wouldn’t kill Lance to spare him this reminder, as if he doesn’t already know all of this… but Lance isn’t leaving, and he isn’t saying anything. He’s just _watching Keith_ right back, swallowing thickly and letting his eyes go wide, and giving Keith this _look_ that’s a mix of pity and the sort of fear that comes when you’re walking around something fragile and expensive, hoping that you don’t make the wrong move, upset any delicate balances, or otherwise break the stupid thing because your foster parents will take every cent that it was worth out of your fucking hide. Each aspect of Lance’s expression is equally revolting and Keith has time for neither. 

“Get to the punchline already,” he bites out as soon as he sees Lance’s mouth open instead of _quivering_ at him. At Lance’s furrowed brow and, _“I don’t know”_ sound, Keith rolls his eyes and grinds the small of his back against the bookshelf’s edge. “You’re trying to be funny, and that’s fine. It’s what you do and you’re not terrible at it. But I’m not following, so please. Get to the fucking punchline.” 

“I’m not playing with you or being funny right now, _okay_? I’m just…” Lance sighs, and his tight, wound-up expression spells out the conflict running through his head. Doesn’t clear up what that conflict _is_ , but at least it’s _present_ and it _exists_ , and it makes Lance whine before he tells Keith, “Look, I know that we haven’t gotten along and you’re probably not gonna believe me, and even if you _didn’t_ completely hate me, you and Pidge are right, I _am_ a goofball, but…” 

Another sigh, and he moves in closer. The hunch of his shoulders should probably make Lance less threatening, and so should the way he hugs himself like he’s trying to come on softly. But on the other hand, this entire conversation _never should have happened_ , so there’s nothing that Keith can trust about any of this, nothing he can use to get any sense of bearings. He can’t push the shelf any further into his back, but it doesn’t stop him from trying, especially when Lance stares dead at him again as if he’s trying to hit Keith with fucking X-ray vision. 

“This is one of the things in life I _wouldn’t_ joke about, okay, Keith?” he says, more solemnly than Keith ever would’ve expected from him. “Shiro’s one of the best friends I’ve ever had in my life, and he put _a **lot**_ of himself into, ‘When You’re Away,’ like? Way more than he usually does. And goofball or not, I wouldn’t make fun out of a song that he _literally cannot play_ without choking up at least a little, so… There’s stuff here that it’s not my place to say or not, but…” 

Lance’s hand drops to Keith’s right shoulder and he looks Keith square in the eye. “I really think that you should _talk to him_ about it.” 

Keith’s whole face twitches as he splutters out a, “… _What_?” 

“Talk to Shiro?” Lance says again, with that tone like _Excuse me, how is this not obvious_. “Talk to him about the _song_? It’s _important_ to him, okay? He started working on it around this time last year, because of _some_ discussions with his sponsor and our therapist that I didn’t wanna push him about ‘cause he was _really_ focusing on staying clean, ‘cause he’d gotten _so flipping close_ to his one-year chip and slipped up _hard_ , like, three weeks out. So I didn’t push him about the new song since it was _obviously_ a big deal to him and his sobriety was more important than me being _curious_ , and I don’t know, maybe I _should_ have, but trust is a big deal and I didn’t want to make him feel like he doesn’t have mine when he _does_ , but just…” 

Lance groans, but doesn’t let it last for long. “I can’t tell you _why_ I think you should talk to him about it, okay? If I could, I absolutely would, but it’s not my thing to decide to tell or not. I’ve said too much already and I’m probably _way_ overstepping with you right now, but…” He squeezes Keith’s shoulder so gently that Keith almost doesn’t feel it. “You don’t have to ever like me, or thank me for this later, or anything else. Just swallow whatever you _think_ you know about what all’s going on and _talk to Shiro_ about the song. Tell him how you feel about it, and if he doesn’t say so on his own, ask him who he wrote it for.” 

He tries to put on a wobbly smile, and it’s likely meant to be encouraging. Were someone else in Keith’s position now, Lance might even succeed in reassuring him about this. But all Keith can find it in himself to do is set his jaw and dig his fingers against the wood — at least until Lance heaves an impatient, gloomy sigh and starts up with, “ _Keith_. Seriously. _Listen to me_ —” 

“No, _you_ listen to _me_ , _**Lance**_.” Keith spits his name and hopes it properly conveys a sentiment like, _“Fuck you, you presumptuous, jumped up little shit.”_ He feels like he should stop before this gets too far. But there’s another part of him that’s burning white-hot and screaming that Lance already started this, and since Keith can’t take back telling him to listen, it’s go big or go home. And Keith hates being the kind of person who _just goes home._

“Remember how you said you don’t know the whole story of what happened in Chicago? Well, let me clue you in on some parts that Shiro probably left out.” Keith only lets go of the shelf so he can knock Lance’s hand off his shoulder. 

Glaring at him and curling his hand back in its old position, Keith goes on, “Back then, I’d only had about _three_ real friends in my entire life. One of them, I had to leave in Corpus Christi when my case worker moved me to a new foster home again. One, I had to leave because I’d aged out of the system. The other one was Shiro. I didn’t _know_ he was in Chicago or expect to find him, I just remembered my Mom had liked the city and thought…” 

_I thought that maybe it was a good starting place and maybe I could find her after all._

“It doesn’t matter what I thought because that plan never happened, because after about two weeks up there, Shiro and his old roommate found me sleeping in the backseat of Mark’s car.” 

Pausing for breath, Keith notices that Lance is giving him a look of utter confusion. “… _What_? It was November, so the shelters filled up pretty quickly. Plus, I didn’t trust myself not to lose any of the stuff I’d brought with me staying in one of them. Money, I could’ve replaced, even if losing it set me back. But if I’d lost my Mom’s old knife? Fuck that. _Irreplaceable_. But even _with_ the cash I still had on me when I got to town, I couldn’t afford a room at the YMCA unless I didn’t want to _eat_ again. I taught myself how to pick locks one summer ‘cause I was bored and the skill came in fucking handy when I needed somewhere to take a nap for a couple hours. I didn’t even _need_ it to get into Mark’s car because those dumb-asses left it in a parking garage and they didn’t lock it, _okay_?” 

“But, dude…” Lance says softly. “You slept in the backseats of people’s _cars_?” 

“Better than a park bench where you could get arrested or covered in fucking snow. Better than the passenger seat of an eighteen-wheeler whose driver is probably whacked out on meth and expects road-head on-demand.” Keith shrugs, and huffs, and hopes his face is giving Lance no escape from exactly how unimpressed he is by this derailment. “Can I keep going or do you have any _more_ stupid questions about the weird places that I’ve slept before?” 

“I wouldn’t call them _weird_ , I’d call them…” Trailing off, Lance shrinks in on himself and nods. 

“So, after they found me, Shiro took me in. Fed me. Let me use their shower. Washed my clothes for me while I was sleeping so I couldn’t argue with him about paying for it myself. I had no idea about his parents or grandparents or anything, so I thought it was all coming out of the same, not-that-deep kinds of pockets as the rest of us. But he kept telling me that I didn’t have to pay him back. Which made no sense to me, and I _hate_ being in anybody’s debt. So, after a little over a week of this, I tried to leave, he tried to tell me I didn’t have to, and…” Well. There’s no actual diplomatic way to say this, no way to phrase it that won’t make Lance hate Keith more than he already does, and deservedly so. 

But that doesn’t mean Keith can look Lance in the eye while his cheeks are burning and he’s saying to the container of CDs off to Lance’s side, “I kissed him. While we were in the middle of me fighting to go. He kissed back, but just by reflex. Didn’t last too long before he pushed me off and was all, ‘What the Hell, Keith.’ So I tell him that it’s okay, I don’t mind trading sex for room and board, and I wouldn’t be there if I weren’t eighteen so it’s fine… But he pushes me off again. Which is when he should get pissed at me for even implying like he’s that kind of guy, right? I mean, we hadn’t seen each other in a while, but he’d given me _no **reason**_ to think he was the same lying, emotionally mercenary _garbage_ as everybody else or that he was anything _but_ sweet, and kind, and caring, and honorable, and he _should have_ gotten fucking _furious_ with me, but like…” 

Just so there can be no mistake about how serious he is and how truthful he’s being, Keith forces himself to look Lance in the eye again. “He didn’t even get _mad_ , he just…” Keith sighs and wishes he had a brick wall to bang his head against. “He asked if I was okay. He asked what _**he** had done_ to make me think he was expecting rent-sex. I told him nothing, so he asked why I felt that way, and I didn’t have a good answer for him, so I _bolted_. In the middle of a _blizzard_. With just a hoodie, my wallet, and my sneakers—” 

“And he came after you and found you crying in a park and brought you home?” For all Lance mumbles an apology for cutting in, Keith can’t even be cranky with him. It’s probably a miracle they’ve made it this far without any interjections. Flushing slightly, Lance explains himself, “Sorry again, just… Shiro, uh. I mean, he left out _why_ you ran out, all he said was you that two’d been arguing about paying him back or not? But, yeah, I’ve heard the part about him sitting in the snow with you with the shoulder-squeezing, and wrapping you up in one of his winter coats while you cried, and pulling you up, and it was all super-sweet, like…” 

“That isn’t _exactly_ how I remember it happening…” Keith huffs. “Leave it to Shiro to make everything sound nicer than it really was.” 

“Dude, what _ever_.” Rolling his eyes, Lance waves at Keith to go on. “Sorry. You were saying?” 

With a shrug, Keith drops his gaze to the ever-decreasing space between his hips and Lance’s stomachs, and picks up, telling him, “I mean, even after that, I wasn’t supposed to _stay_. He thought I should and didn’t mind because he’s just that good, but I could’ve done more to find my own place, even if it was a worse freaking postage stamp than I live in now… Except I didn’t. And there was no good reason for it, no excuse — we didn’t even have our first _real_ kiss ’til after he’d taken me to Christmas at Aunt Satomi’s, and I knew he had a guy he saw more often but he never called Maurice his _‘boyfriend’_ or anything, which was probably for the best because from what Shiro _did_ tell me, Maurice already sounded like a real piece of work, but…” 

Grumbling, Keith folds in on himself. It doesn’t make him feel any less like some freak show that Lance is _gawking_ at, but in fairness, that’s probably more on him than Lance because Lance’s expression looks more like he’s trying to keep up with everything. 

“I mean, when I agreed that things wouldn’t get romantic between us, I honestly thought that they wouldn’t?” Admitting that, Keith sighs and arches an eyebrow at Lance’s perplexed frown. None of this has been his business anyway, but if they’re really gonna do this shit, then there’s no reason to go halfway. Maybe he’ll make Lance regret sticking his nose into things that are not and have never been his place to investigate. “I wasn’t in love with Shiro at the time I made that promise, okay? And kissing him was _great_ , so I really didn’t want to stop, but like…” 

A shrug. “On some level, he was still, ‘Cool, hot, surprisingly a sweetheart Shiro, my foster brother’s token not-an-asshole friend, who seems to like me more than Bryce.’” 

Lance lets out a low whistle. “Bet you _loooooved_ that, huh?” 

“Almost no one liked me at the time—” 

“God, I can’t _imagine_ why—” 

“I didn’t _usually_ give them reasons for that on purpose. But I was overdue for an actual friend by the time I first met Shiro.” Which isn’t the point, and somehow, Keith suspects that he and Lance are _both_ trying to deflect right now. 

Straightening up, he drags his back along the edge of the bookshelf. “I probably could’ve thought it over and realized it had the potential to go there because almost _everyone who meets him_ falls at least a little bit in love with Shiro and I already knew that I’m bi and he’s fucking beautiful, so if I’d _thought_ about it… Like, come on, why would I be _special_?” 

Keith clamps his fingers around his elbow. “When I did start falling for him, I didn’t figure it out for a while because I’m a fucking _idiot_. But Shiro didn’t want that and he didn’t want _me_. Even if he had, Mark and I had found something we actually agreed on by the time I’d realized how I felt, and it was worrying about Shiro, like? ‘Did you see him eat anything today because I know that I sure didn’t. Didn’t you take his Percocet away last night, because I’m pretty sure that he just took something. Is it just me or is he _really_ hitting the tequila lately.’ Plus, things were starting to get worse between him and Maurice, and it’s not like he told me _everything_ — there was a lot of reading between the lines of what he said, and all the details I put in my journal, and some of the songs he was making at the time, and then a lot of _hoping_ that I was wrong? But one time, Shiro ignored Maurice to help me study for my GED and he was a _mess_ after the next time they saw each other, so I didn’t think I was. Like, Shiro even told me that Maurice liked, _‘ **playing** extra-rough’_ when he, _‘got a **little** jealous,’_ so…” 

“Dude, did you just make finger-quotes at me?” Lance says, in almost the exact tone he used when Keith asked what a DeLorean was. “While you are literally telling me about Shirito making excuses for his abusive ex?” 

Keith shrugs. “I, uh… wanted to be clear? That I was just repeating what he said? Like, so you wouldn’t think I was the one _downplaying_ anything?” 

“If things with you and Shiro are supposed to be so, _‘never gonna happen’_ hopeless, why do you even _care_ what I think? I mean, if you’re just distracting him until he decides he’s bored or whatever you _think_ is gonna happen, then why in the Jesus-cheesing monkey- _fuck_ …” Trailing off into the most exasperated noise Keith has ever heard escape a human mouth, Lance shakes his head and throws up his hands in mock-surrender. “Whatever, I don’t wanna know, keep going. You’re lucky you and Shay are the only ones in here right now or my boss would take my freaking _head_ off.” 

“Can’t you put the rest together on your own?” He’s already explained enough to feel like he’s betraying someone important, so really, this ought to be enough. But when Keith only gets an arched eyebrow out of Lance, he sighs and rolls his eyes. “You know the leash that Maurice had Shiro on. Unless you’re a bigger idiot than I am, you’ve got to know that, ‘jealous’ for him really meant, ‘possessive.’ He took shit out on Shiro that wasn’t Shiro’s fault, shit Shiro wasn’t even involved in. If he wasn’t treating Shiro like a _whipping boy_ , he was treating him like some fucking _trophy_. Like he wasn’t even a _**person**_ , just a prize Maurice had won that he got to show off or do anything he wanted to because if Shiro ever pissed him off, even over something _trivial_? Then Maurice could get too rough, or pretend he didn’t hear a safe-word, or have his other half cut off Shiro’s pills, or _something_ to quote-unquote, _‘get Shiro back in line.’_ You said he _kidnapped_ Shiro earlier, so you obviously know _something_ about how things wound up between us, like…” 

Without meaning to, Keith’s worked himself up and as his lungs scream at him in protest, he leans toward Lance. This earns him a bemused squint that doesn’t entirely disappear when Keith slumps back into the shelf so hard that, even through his jacket, he makes himself wince. Pain helps keep him grounded, if not quite as much as it does normally, but Keith needs several deep breaths before he feels up to going on. He takes a couple more on top of that, just in case. 

“With all those facts in front of you, Lance,” he says, barely managing to keep his voice under some semblance of control. “Can’t you use your brain — because I can’t deny you have one — so take it, and use it, and put those facts together and figure out that, like…?” 

For a moment, he thinks that Lance is putting thought into his answer. But all Lance gives him is a shrug and a sound like, _“I don’t know, Keith. You tell me.”_

“Oh my — how in the _fuck_ are you _still not **getting** this_?” Keith has to claw at his own elbow to keep himself from getting too heated or too loud as he says so. No matter how hard his grip is, though, his whole body is flushed and trembling like something inside of Keith is about to break. “What happened is that I fell in love with Shiro when I promised him I wouldn’t, and because I did that, I _fucked up **everything**_! How is that conclusion not completely fucking _obvious_?!” 

“Because how does that logic even _work_ , Keith!” Lance snaps, jerking his arms like he’s fighting to keep from outright flailing them. “Unless you were right there, gun to Maurice’s head, telling him to take Shiro or you’d shoot him, then how—” 

“It’s called _cause and effect_ , genius!” Why Lance even needs this spelled out is beyond Keith, but since he apparently gave Lance too much credit, Keith snarls and tells him, “I fell in love with Shiro. Maurice found out about it. We met each other a couple times and I probably wasn’t all that subtle. About hating him or about mooning over Shiro like some idiot thirteen-year-old — except I had my shit way more together when I was thirteen! All I that did back then was catch myself thinking about Shiro while jerking off, ask Google about it at the library, and go, ‘Oh shit, I might be bisexual’ and nobody got fucking _hurt_!” 

“But how is that _your_ fault, though—” 

“Because _I’m_ the one who broke the promise! _I’m_ the one who fell for Shiro, knowing that he didn’t want anything like that from me, and Maurice took _my_ being a lovesick fuck-up out on _him_. I just…” _Fuck, shit, dammit, I am **not** going to cry in front of you, Lance Esparza. I’m absolutely fucking **not**._ Keith tightens his hold on himself and tries to strengthen his resolve. But making himself keep going, he hates the tiny quiver in his voice and just prays that Lance can’t hear it. 

“And this knowledge was _bad enough_ to live with before Monday,” he says, knuckles going white around his arm. “Because before I learned what _really_ happened, I didn’t know if the, ‘Maurice and Aunt Satomi are taking me to get some help, I don’t know how long I’ll be gone’ story was real, but for all I knew, it could’ve been. Then, I only would’ve been a selfish jackass. Some grade-A fuck-boy who spent _almost two **weeks**_ chasing everything I could, trying to find Shiro and drag him out of rehab or wherever, and why? Because I couldn’t handle him not being there. And I didn’t want to think Maurice had any decent qualities. And I didn’t want to think that maybe he actually cared about Shiro after all because then I had a free excuse to hate him. So, yeah, I wanted Shiro to be getting help, but in another way, I didn’t. I still don’t know _everything_ Maurice ever put him through, but I knew enough that I _**never**_ should’ve wished for anything like…” 

Keith’s voice cracks off, but he refuses to let it be a sob, because fuck everything and this conversation especially, he _is. **not.** gonna. cry_. “It was bad enough to think that I was just a clingy, selfish asshole, y’know? Bad enough to feel like I lost my shit over getting left again like that’s _never_ happened to me before, when I should’ve been _happy_ that Shiro was getting help. Except it turns out that I was right the first time and he _wasn’t_ getting help, so now I’m the selfish ass who got pissed off about him leaving me when it turns out _I’m_ the one who left somebody this time… And I didn’t even have the _right_ to get upset about that in the first place because I was the one in _Shiro’s_ debt, not the other way around, and it’s not like we were anything but _fuck-buddies_ … Never mind how I can’t be upset about _any_ of this because if it’s not that I’m just _wrong_ , then it’s like I’m making _his_ pain and _his_ abuse all about _my-fucking- **self**_ , as _usual_ …” 

Looking down at his and Lance’s stomachs hovering closer together than he likes, Keith shifts and digs the edge of a shelf against his shoulders again. He can’t get it to go in any harder, which sucks because the efficacy of this pain is _really_ wearing off, but that doesn’t stop him trying. 

“But still, Shiro’s _back_ now, and he’s _better_ , and I _am_ happy for him being sober and doing more okay now, and if he wants to see me, then you’re right, I should respect that, but…” Keith shrugs. Coughs up a mirthless chuckle. Forces a smile at Lance and hopes that it looks as painful as it feels. “But I also know you’re right about how I am the _last_ thing that Shiro needs to have in his life _ever_ again. Because I _know_ what happened last time. And maybe he’s not mad at me about it like he _should_ be and he never has been, or maybe he _was_ at one point but they made him forgive me back in rehab, or _something_ , I don’t even know?” 

“Yeah, you _don’t_ know,” Lance interjects, and Keith flinches before realizing that actually Lance’s voice was _gentle_ and the look on his face isn’t exactly pity. “That’s kinda my point in telling you to talk to him about the song, right? Because there’s a lot here that you. _**Don’t**. Know_. And you keep babbling about everything like you _do_ know, so it’s starting to sound like you’re just afraid of being _hurt_ —” 

“Yes. Thank you. I was _getting_ to that.” Glowering doesn’t seem to impress Lance any, but Keith has bigger shit to worry about. “Of course I’m afraid of getting _hurt_ , you idiot. I just wish I didn’t have to _know that_ because knowing doesn’t make me feel better. It makes me feel like even more of an asshole, because I _know_ that Shiro isn’t like that. I’ve probably used up all my karma points on him not being mad at me about what happened in Chicago—” 

“He isn’t _mad_ because it’s _not your fault_ —” 

“—but if there _were_ still a chance of him wanting me like that, the fact is that he fucking _shouldn’t_.” Keith glares at Lance for interrupting. He tries to, anyway. His face is burning, his eyes are stinging, and his spine and skin are joined in protest of how close he’s pushing them up to the bookshelf’s edge, but he should be able to manage a simple intimidating flash of his eyes. 

When all Lance does is look sad _for_ him, not even mildly annoyed, Keith sighs. “If I were even _half_ of what Shiro deserves, I never would’ve texted him last week because I’d have the willpower to stay away. Like, I’ve fallen In Love with exactly _two_ people in my entire _stupid_ life and both of them would be better off without me. Which _sucks_ to live with knowing, but at least if I weren’t making their lives worse right here and now, I could deal with it _by myself_ instead of making it anybody else’s _fucking problem_ —” 

Another weak, pathetic, _broken_ -sounding noise creaks up from Keith’s throat and he only barely manages to choke it down. At least his vision isn’t getting misty as he goes on with, “And y’see, Lance? I am _trying_ to put this utter _bullshit_ in an emotional dumpster where it goddamn well _belongs_? Because it _isn’t_ anybody else’s problem but _my own_. And if Shiro and Allura want to keep me around despite their own best interests, then fine, whatever, that’s their call until they figure out how much _better_ they deserve. Until that happens, though, the _least_ that I can do is _**not** take this fucking garbage out on them_ , ya think? And _**not** make them have to deal with it_ , because unlike me, they’re good people and even though they’re rich, they have both been through _enough_. So, I’m _trying_ to shove everything out of the way where it can’t bother anybody and just find my best friend’s freaking birthday present…” 

Despite the way his entire chest is trembling, Keith breathes in deep and once more, forces himself to look Lance in the eye. “Except for this obnoxious, needle-skinny Kesha fanboy who’s following me around the fucking record store, interrogating me like I don’t already _know_ that I’m bad news, and offering me fucking life-advice when _he’s_ a lying, selfish fuck-up in his own right, and _cheating_ on a beautiful, _amazing_ boyfriend so he can _screw around with other guys_!” 

Whatever Lance was planning to say, it dies in another, _“I don’t know”_ noise. Except this time, it actually _does_ sound like he’s clueless, which makes Keith twitch and yearn to punch him in the jaw.

“Don’t play _stupid_ with me, dumb-ass!” he snaps, and probably only _doesn’t_ shout because he lets himself shove at Lance’s shoulders. 

Which accomplishes absolutely nothing, apart from making Lance look even more confused, so Keith _groans_. “Oh _come on_ , you know what the fuck I’m talking about! Do you even _acknowledge_ Hunk when you go out with him, or are you one of those dicks who wants to _fuck_ the cute fat guy and thinks he should be grateful that a hot little twink like you is even _interested_!” 

“Hey!” Lance flails, trying to bat Keith’s arms off before getting pushed again. “I _don’t_ know what you’re talking about—” 

“I fucking _told you_ what I’m—” 

“Yeah, but I’m not dating Hunk!” 

“Stop _lying_ to me!” 

“I’m _not_!” 

That denial makes Keith _growl_ , kicks awake a piece of him he’s always associated with Red. Tuning out his higher brain’s protests that Shiro _really_ wouldn’t like this, he drags himself up off the bookshelf and makes another move at shoving. This time, though, Lance weaves out of the way of Keith’s arms. He grins as if he’s feeling like a total badass, but it dissolves into a gasp and an awful, satisfying whine when Keith stomps on his foot instead. While Lance is off-guard, Keith shoves him, but pulls himself back from going in full-force. It’d be so easy to punch him in the stomach, but cheating douche or not, Lance probably _needs_ his job. 

“Look, I _heard_ the way that Shiro talks about the two of you,” Keith snarls, squaring himself up to as full a height as possible as he crowds in on Lance. “And I _met Hunk_ on Friday! Total accident, he offers to help me out with something and I let him. _Any time_ that you came up between us, you know what I heard? It sounded like he was saying, ‘Oh, please excuse my boyfriend, he really does mean well, and I love his ungrateful skinny ass _so much_ and I’m so used to _apologizing_ for him that I can’t tell how much _better_ I deserve’ — and then? He outright _tells me_ that you’re make out-buddies with Shiro, too, as though somebody that _kind_ doesn’t deserve his boyfriend’s _loyalty_ —” 

“Except we’re _not together_!” Lance snaps and for the first time, his fuming at Keith has something other than frustration going on behind it. Something that looks an awful lot like _hurt_. “What, you want me to say it in Spanish or something? _Hunk. No es. Mi novio_. Do you _get me_? Fucking _¿claro?_ You Jesus chicken Krispy Treat-sucking _quiznakked_ …” 

Lance groans as his string of curses becomes flat-out unintelligible, and watching him yank a hand back through his hair like he actually wants to pull it clean out of his head, Keith plants his feet and gets ready for Lance to take a swing at him. He started this. Or anyway, he’s the one who made things get full-on physical. Lance would be totally within his rights to hit Keith back. 

The swing never comes, but what Lance does instead is ten times worse. Slumping against the shelf, Lance sighs like it’s coming from somewhere deep inside of him and it’s been pent up for way too long. All the anger ebbs out of him, melting away as though someone came along with enough explosives for an overblown sci-fi movie action set-piece blew up Lance’s internal dam. 

“D’you _seriously_ think you’re the only person ‘round here who’s in love with someone way too good for you? The only one stuck _knowing_ how much better he deserves than you and wanting him anyway, and feeling like the worst for that?” he says, staring across the aisles at a point on the opposite shelf. “And sometimes it feels great, because it’s _warm_ , and it’s _love_ , and just being around him can make you happy… But other times, you’re like…” 

“Other times, you look at him or you think about him and you want to walk out in front of a fucking bus?” Keith offers, softly if not quite gently. “Because you want him so much but you can’t pretend you don’t know that he’s too good for you, and it’s like someone beat the shit out of you, took your lunch money, and laughed their ass off while ripping your heart out of your chest with their bare hands?” 

“Well, I liked that better before all the heart-ripping goth kid shit, but basically, yeah.” Lance slouches at the hips, and Keith recognizes the resignation on his face too well. He’s made that same expression at himself more times than he wants to think about. 

But at least he doesn’t have to, because Lance shrugs and tacks on, “Anyway, sometimes I wouldn’t _mind_ if the heart-ripping shit was real, though. At least that’d probably hurt less than wondering if he’s been subtly turning me down or if I’m doing something wrong and he doesn’t get that I’m crazy about him, or _what_ the Hell is going on with us…” 

Lance keeps talking, and regardless of what Keith feels about him, he _knows_ that right now, it’s time to listen. 

But he _can’t_. 

He’s trying — for fuck’s sakes, Lance is opening up about something when Keith accused him of being a cheating bastard based on nothing but wild misinterpretation and a bias against him — but Keith _has to try_? 

Except he sees Lance’s lips moving and he’s hearing Lance’s voice and no matter how hard he tries to focus and pick out any semblance of meaning, the words do not make any sense to Keith. Half of them don’t even _sound_ like words, for all he realizes, on some level, that they _should_. Hell, he can barely make out Lance’s tone, never mind the _specifics_ of what he’s saying. It sounds lovelorn and weary and slightly sick, though Keith wouldn’t bet anything on that right now. 

But as he rabbits on, Keith’s chest tightens up on him again, trying to choke the life out of him itself. Before he’s certain of which way is up, Keith’s digging his nails into his palm and getting nothing for it, and he gasps without understanding why, then Lance is furrowing his brow and Keith’s eyes feel like they’ve caught on fire… 

The tears spill over as Lance takes him by the shoulders. Shepherding Keith back down a hallway, Lance shifts his tone to something softer, something that sounds like, _“Okay, buddy, come on, I gotcha, it’s gonna be okay…”_

*** * ***

> “Keith?” 
> 
> By the time I heard someone calling my name, I had no idea how long I’d been sitting in the park, in the snow, underneath a giant tree, with my face buried in my knees. Long enough to have wet jeans and small heaps of the white shit amassing on my shoulders, and long enough that I felt sure the snot leaking from my nose had frozen over, but distinctly not long enough for my eyes to have given up the ghost on crying. Contrary to some Northerners’ popular beliefs, I’d seen snow before, growing up in Texas, but in fairness, it was nothing like you got in Chicago, between the lake effect and being closer to the 45th Parallel. On some level, I hoped that the cold would get to me and make my eyes realize how pointless it was, crying about anything. 
> 
> I didn’t even know what I was crying about, not really, which only made it worse. If I’d known why I was being such a baby, I could’ve come up with all the reasons why I should’ve stopped already, but sucks for me because I had no idea. Something to do with Shiro, I guessed, since the tears had threatened me throughout our argument and they’d started up as soon as I got out his building’s door. But it could’ve been anything, as far as I knew. At least being in the blizzard with only a ratty sweatshirt, I couldn’t tell if I was still trembling from the tears or if that had given way to shivering from the cold by now. 
> 
> “ Keith!” 
> 
> I didn’t let myself look up. I wasn’t sure how much I wanted to. Telling myself that it couldn’t be Shiro, I picked up my forehead just enough to rub my eyes off on my sleeve. Not that it helped, since they welled up with tears and let them spill back out all over again, hot and sick and making me want to vomit because of how they refused to stop. Whoever it was shouted again and I hugged my shins even tighter than before, burrowed into my legs like doing that could get me to turn invisible. Effectively, I was alone out here. There had to be somebody else in the park, hence the yelling, but they must’ve been calling for some other Keith because after what I’d said before running out, there was no way that Shiro would come after me. 
> 
> But the voice got more insistent as it got closer to me, until finally, there was a sigh of relief instead of shouting. “Oh my God, Keith…” 
> 
> Boots plodded over to me, crunching the still-smallish mess of snow. I clenched my fingers into my calf as Shiro kneeled in front of me. Never mind that I didn’t want for it to be him, and I didn’t want him to be there with me right then, because he was there. No mistaking that voice of his for someone else’s. Besides, it probably hadn’t been that long since I’d had his soft, strong hand wrapped around my wrist. The only reason it felt different now? Was that his squeeze for me was gentle, because he wasn’t trying to stop me from doing anything — which would’ve been a dead giveaway that it couldn’t be anybody else but Shiro, if I hadn’t already put everything together. Nobody else had ever been as gentle with me as he had. Even so, I curled in around myself as hard as I could manage, all so I had room to tug my hand away. 
> 
> “Keith, please,” he said softly, not touching me for all he sounded like he wanted to. “It’s freezing, you’re gonna get sick—” 
> 
> “Go away,” I mumbled, whining like a brat, which was fitting since I was acting like a fucking brat. “You’ll get sick. I’m fine. Never been better…” 
> 
> “Yeah, because what I get from you sitting outside in a blizzard, shaking all over, and refusing to look at me is that you are completely fine.” 
> 
> Hearing that deadpan tone from Shiro was a special privilege, though I didn’t appreciate it, in the moment. I’ve since learned that he only lets people hear that when he really trusts them. But right that second, all I could manage to do was drag my face up off my legs. I didn’t want to — I regretted doing it as soon as Shiro gasped and got his face all knotted in concern — but the shaking didn’t want to stop and I didn’t want to go inside. When my first foster family adopted a puppy and it took a shit on the brand new carpet, it got yelled at and put out in the backyard. Shiro had only barely raised his voice at me before I ran out, and he’d done it more in surprise than anger. He didn’t have a backyard or anything like that at his apartment, so an exile to the park made perfect sense. I must’ve cried myself into looking like Hell on two legs, because the light flush drained from his cheek so quickly that I wondered if there’d been any red on his face at all, and that kicked me in the fucking chest. Why was he being so goddamn stubborn? Why didn’t he want to understand that it was better for both of us, this way? 
> 
> Sighing again, Shiro reached over to push a piece of hair off my forehead. “Come on. Let’s go home.” 
> 
> Looking him in the eye proved harder than it usually is for me. Even trying made my throat close in around itself. But by some miracle, shaking my head gave me enough strength to say, “I can’t.” 
> 
> “Yes, you can. I’ll help you up if you need it. Then we can get you inside and warmed up and into something clean… Mark brought back hot cocoa today, so we’ll make some—” 
> 
> “I mean I can’t go home.” As much as I wanted to take his head off for looking at me like he had no idea what I was telling him, I didn’t have the energy to do much more than sulk. I imagine it was about as effective an intimidation tactic as getting glared at by a three-week-old kitten. “That’s your home, Shiro, but it isn’t… I don’t think I even know what…” I groaned, scratching at my leg through my denim. “Telling me to go home is pointless because I don’t know where that is. But the apartment isn’t my home, so just…” 
> 
> I shrugged. “Do what you want. But your place is not my home, okay?” 
> 
> “Maybe it isn’t your home now…” Shiro slouched and met my eyes, squeezing my shoulder as he said, “But it could be, if you wanted.” 
> 
> The next thing that I remember is being sprawled against his warm chest, sobbing into the crook of his neck while he rubbed my back and told me everything would be okay. He smelled like his pungent pomegranate body-wash and the Altoids that he sucked on to cover up when he’d been drinking, but without any lingering tequila-stink coming off his skin or mouth. I guess I must’ve tackled him, or maybe I tried to get away again and he refused to let me go, but whatever, Ryner. That’s one of the problems with creative nonfiction in the first place, isn’t it? Memories are unreliable. I’ve pulled my old journals out of the back of my desk to make this fucking essay happen, so I could get records from as close to the source as possible, but there’s nothing in the entry about this incident that tells me jack with a side of squat about how Shiro and I wound up flopped out in the snow. All I know for sure is that we did, and that he didn’t protest anything, no matter how fucking cold it was, but held me until I’d calmed down enough to agree to go back to his place with him. 
> 
> He gave me a wobbly, hopeful smile as he helped me up, then put his coat and a strong arm around my shoulders. Nuzzling my hair at a crosswalk, he kissed my forehead, then my temple. “One new condition for you to stay, though?” he said like he was trying to make a joke. “Don’t scare me like this again, okay? Please don’t scare me like this again. And whatever I can do to help you stick to that? Anything you need, just tell me and I’ll do it…” 

* * *

As far as employee break-rooms go, Keith’s definitely seen worse than the one at Mind Swish Wreck-Chords. Once they’re alone and the door’s been mostly-shut, Lance sits him on the couch, and after a while of crying with no clue why he’s doing this or when it’s going to stop, Keith’s first clear thought is that this sofa would be a vast improvement on some of the others that he’s slept on in his life. True, it’s kinda ratty and has a distinct reek like someone’s spent years spraying the thing down Febreeze to try and cover up God only knows what kinds of stinks. But it’s comfy enough that Keith could nod off right now, if not for Lance hovering in his peripheral vision. 

When the tears finally start dying down, Keith can appreciate the rest of the room. There are posters hanging around the walls and most of them seem to be for local acts, or so he guesses from the _three_ different Galaxy Garrison flyers that he picks out. The fridge’s outside looks kinda grimy, but when Lance opens it up to grab something, the inside is pristine. Keith mumbles a, _“Thank you”_ as Lance holds a bottle of water out toward him, and he scrubs at one eye with his wrist as Lance asks what all Keith was looking at before everything went kinda toothpaste and orange juice plus Diet Coke and Pop-Rocks on them. 

Filing that euphemism away for later, Keith shrugs. “Leonard Cohen, mostly? He’s okay, but Allura likes him more than I do… I know she already has some of his stuff on vinyl, though? Like, _I’m Your Man_ ‘cause that’s the one with his Garcia Lorca song and that one’s her favorite song that he ever did. Uh, the album that has, ‘Hallelujah’ on it? I know she’s got _Songs of Leonard Cohen_ and _New Skin For The Old Ceremony_ , ‘cause she got into these huge, ridiculous bidding wars on ebay to score first edition pressings…” 

Lance ducks out in the middle of Keith’s sentence, which seems oddly rude, even for him. But a few moments later, he’s back with an armful of LPs. Right at the top of them is _Songs of Love and Hate_ —

“Not my favorite Cohen, but that’s one of Shiro’s favorite bad mood albums,” Lance says, cracking open a can of Coke. 

“Yeah, that’s what Mark said, first time Shiro holed up in his room to, ‘Dress Rehearsal Rag’ for a few hours…” Keith says, only half-aware of what he’s babbling about and not trying to pay attention. “‘Famous Blue Raincoat’ is the big song I remember from this one, though… My Dad used to love it before I lost him… First time Allura saw me cry was right after I’d met her Father for the first time, which was its own mess, then I came back to their place and her ipod shuffled onto that one… There was this time Shiro kissed me during it — I mean, he’d let me try his Percocet and he _started_ kissing me during, ‘Diamonds In The Mine,’ but I dunno, something about _how_ he kissed me changed up during, ‘Famous Blue Raincoat’—” 

“Dude,” Lance gently interjects. “You do not need to tell me anything else, okay?” 

To Keith’s surprise, it sounds like Lance really means that, like he’s trying to respect Keith’s boundaries and not like he just wants Keith to shut up. 

That may be the closest he’s getting to an apology with Keith, and dimly, Keith appreciates that Lance is actually respecting what he said before. Either way, he turns back to checking out the records, and underneath _Songs of Love and Hate_ , he finds a different copy of _Songs from a Room_ (“It’s not first edition,” Lance tells him, “but it’s in better condition than the one you left out on the shelf”). Under that is _Death of a Ladies’ Man_ (“Hunk loves that one best”), then _Live Songs_ (“I really don’t like it as a live album, but I was sorta running out of Leonard Cohen vinyl”), Joni Mitchell’s _Both Sides Now_ (which goes without comment, and despite the lack of evidence, Keith guesses that might have something to do with Shiro), and Kate and Anna McGarrigle’s _Dancer With Bruised Knees_. 

Leaning back in his chair with his legs splayed open, Lance arches his eyebrows at that last one. “I’m more into Heart, if we’re talkin’ musical sister duos,” he says with a shrug. “And if we’re talkin’ about that family, then I’m more into Martha than the rest of them. But we were looking at Canadian folk music, and Hunk’s a fan of the McGarrigles, so…” 

“Rufus is my favorite out of that family,” Keith says, for lack of any other idea where to go. “But, y’know, Martha’s good, too.” 

“Did Shirito turn you on to Rufus? ‘cause I know he loves him…” 

Arching an eyebrow, Keith huffs. “We got into him independently of each other, actually. I dunno how Shiro found him, but I found him through the first girl I had a crush on, who found him through her lesbian aunt or something.” 

Lance makes a pensive sound and looks like he’s trying to decide what to say to that. Before he can, though, a sharp knock and a drawl of, _“Lance…”_ jolt both of them into sitting up straight. Standing in the threshold is a tall, slim woman with high, fine cheekbones, long fingers drumming along the door-frame, and a penciled-in eyebrow arched pointedly at Lance. If she’s really who Keith thinks she is, then Shay’s choice of _regal_ doesn’t quite go far enough. The long blue ponytail fits with how Shay described Luxia, but somehow, even knowing that she owns a record store, Keith expected her to show up in a cape and bodice, not nice jeans and a long-sleeved black Nirvana t-shirt with a design of the circles from Dante Alighieri’s Hell. 

Wearing what Keith can only describe as a shit-eating grin, Lance turns in his seat and says, “Heeey, O Queen, my Queen?” 

“I was unaware that I had hired anybody new, Lance…” Pursing her lips, Luxia turns her arched eyebrow onto Keith instead. Her stare is cold and entrancing, and it makes him wish the couch would swallow him up entirely. 

“Sorry, just…” Lance sighs. “This is Keith, he’s uh… a friend of the band? And I know the break-room’s employees only, but he was looking at records and thought he was gonna spew—” 

“For what it’s worth, I don’t think I’m contagious or anything?” Keith chimes in, forcing a smile as he waves at her but also slouching, trying to look as pathetic as possible. As a matter of principle, he’d rather not, but it would lend credence to Lance’s story. “Probably just got something bad from the dining hall.” 

“He goes to school with Shay,” Lance tacks on, with a quick glance back to nod at Keith. “Up at the college? Plus, he’s buddies with Hunk and he goes way back with Shiro, and he really _was_ going to buy something—” 

“Oh, I’m still gonna, once I feel better…” Making himself meet Luxia’s gaze, Keith explains, “Best friend’s birthday next week. She likes music and Shay _highly_ recommended your shop for the selection, being in my price range, and the _service_ —” 

“Yeah, exactly! _Service!_ Which is what I was doing—” 

“And, uh… I’m sorry, ma’am, for distracting Lance so much? But he knows more music than I do, and he knows it better…” Trying to make himself smile just a _little bit_ more, Keith says, “Even before taking me back here when I got sick, he was giving _exemplary_ customer service. Y’know, like, helping me out with finding things that my friend might like… He’s really gone above and beyond today…” 

By way of emphasizing that point, Keith holds up the albums Lance brought back. Luxia tilts her head at them for a moment, and although her face doesn’t exactly _soften_ , she quirks her lips at Lance in something like a smile. Nodding at him, she says, _“Excellent work, Lance. Keep it up”_ — and as soon as another door closes down the corridor, Lance groans and slumps back in obvious relief. 

“Oh my _God_ , that was a close one.” Grumbling a string of words that Keith can’t quite make out, Lance turns back to him. As he takes a sip of his Coke, he watches Keith with the sort of caution that would suit a lion who wants to fight you for the last piece of steak much better than it suits a pale, stringy-haired student, fresh off of a midterm exam, who was literally just sobbing his heart out all over your break-room sofa for no obvious fucking reason. 

When all Keith gives him is a grimace of confusion, Lance sighs and rolls his eyes. He looks Keith dead in the eye while saying, “Okay, fine, be that way and _make me_ ask it: why did you help me with my boss just now?” 

Keith shrugs. “You got me back here and gave me water?” 

“Uh, yeah, because you started _crying_? Why would I make you do that where people could see? I wouldn’t want to cry in the middle of a store like that, would you?” 

Keith supposes that he wouldn’t, but the underlying point of Lance’s question — assuming that he has one — still isn’t clicking into place. Trying again, Keith offers him, “I mean, the girl with the pink hair said your boss was already mad at you today? And you probably _need_ this job, or even if you _don’t_ , you seem to really like it here?” 

Lance considers that for a moment before telling Keith, “I could probably drop it, if I got sick of it here? But only if I wanted to use Shirito as my quiznakking sugar daddy, which I don’t, ‘cause that isn’t fair and we aren’t really into each other like that, y’know? Anyway, I’d get _bored_.” 

“So, pretty much exactly the same reason why Shiro keeps working at secondhand bookstores owned by well-meaning, socially awkward eccentrics? Even though he could totally get away with being rich and beautiful and nothing else?” 

“Kinda yeah. Except for the parts where he’s a genius, I still have my parents, and he only has the one brother. But if any of _my_ siblings wound up like Ryou, I could probably only handle one of them, either.” Shaking his head, Lance rolls his eyes in a way that makes Keith snort, despite how he should probably know better. 

“Ryou’s not _so_ bad…” he says, over-easily and hoping that Lance gets an idea of where he’s going with this. “I mean, he’s clearly the less _interesting_ twin, his social skills make _me_ feel like I even _have_ any, and his fanboy crush on Stephen King is at best seriously off-putting…” 

A shrug and a smirk that Keith hopes looks at least slight wicked. “But still, y’know, Ryou’s not _that_ bad, really.” 

“Dude,” Lance snickers. “At least Ryou isn’t _Slav_.” 

With only that said, Lance pauses and grins at Keith expectantly. Apparently, this is supposed to mean something more than it does to Keith, who can only shrug bemusedly. Faced with how Keith’s only knowledge of Slav begins and ends with, _“He is Ryou’s roommate, who exists, and Shiro kinda low-grade hates him,”_ Lance launches into an explanation of how Slav is a total genius, on a level that makes Shiro and Ryou look like kid stuff. Unfortunately, though, Slav has the worst case of OCD that Lance has ever encountered in his _entire cheesing life_ — “And between Hunk, Matt, Pidge, Ryou, and several people in my family? I am not without experience in this” — but Slav never remembers to take his meds, unless Ryou or someone else reminds him to. And if he didn’t like them for a reason Lance has heard before, that would be one thing… 

“But Slav says he can’t _work right_ if he takes his meds reliably,” Lance says, barely holding off a groan. “Because, get this? He’s all into this crazy string theory, quantum physics, alternate realities shit, and he says his meds keep him from seeing the ways that all his ideas tie together — which is even _worse_ than it sounds already ‘cause his shit _does **not**_ make any sense…” 

Keith isn’t _trying_ to be rude or tune Lance out right now. But as he goes on about Slav, Keith’s ears prick up for the sound of, _“I’m the Son of Rage and Love! The Jesus of Suburbia!”_ and angst-ridden guitar riffs playing on the speakers. Although it’s not that loud (no doubt out of respect for any customers who might be sensitive to loud noises), the Green Day’s coming in a bit louder than the music’s been before, as if someone turned the volume up for this song specifically, and Keith can’t help but brighten up a little. God, it must’ve been _forever_ since he last heard this song, but it still hits the same place in Keith’s chest that it kicked him in the first time. _“And there’s nothing wrong with me! This is how I’m s’posed to be! In the land of make-believe that don’t believe in me!”_

Keith doesn’t realize that he’s been singing along until Lance kicks him in the shin. But before his blush can get garnished in apologies, Lance joins in, “ _Get my television fiiiiiix! Sittin’ on my crucifix! The living room, or my private tomb, while the Moms and Brads are away! To fall in love or fall in debt…_ ” 

Though Keith meant to keep going, he furrows his brow at Lance instead. “…Wait, isn’t the lyric, ‘private womb’?” 

“Dude, _yes!_ ” Lance is grinning so much, he’s almost beaming. “I wanted you to catch that, I can’t believe you actually know Green Day!” 

“Is there anyone who _doesn’t_ know Green Day?” 

“Well, that’s what I thought about _Back to the Future_ , too, but…” Instead of rehashing Keith’s ignorance in that regard, Lance waggles both of his eyebrows and shrugs, and Keith actually feels somewhat grateful for that. It’s still uncomfortable, but it’s better than verbally going over Saturday night again. 

“ _American Idiot_ was the first album I ever owned,” Keith explains and takes a long swig out of his bottle. “A couple weeks after I got placed with Bryce’s family, he had a birthday and got an ipod. He gave me his old Walkman, which I thought was awesome until he refused to share any of his CDs. I still didn’t know Shiro that well, so when he asked why I carried the stupid thing everywhere but never listened to anything, I said I’d spent pocket money on it before having any music—” 

“Oh quiznak, this is going to one of those, ‘Shirito has no idea how to chill about helping people’ places, isn’t it—” 

Keith wrinkles his nose like _Do you even need to **ask**?_ , but when Lance is done groaning, he says, “By Shiro standards, it wasn’t _that_ bad? Like, the worst thing was probably how he did it for a twelve-year-old street rat that he barely knew. But anyway, the gift bag he brought over next time we saw each other was mostly full of secondhand stuff — X-tina’s debut album and _Dirrty_ ‘cause Ryou had wound up with extra copies of them somehow… Elton John’s greatest hits and _Songs From The West Coast_ because Shiro’s Mom never listened to them anyway… The Patti Lupone and Mandy Patinkin version of _Evita_ ‘cause one of Shiro’s cousins had left it at their house while visiting that summer break and just bought another copy by the time that Shiro’d found it…” 

Another shrug and a small, but genuine, tight-lipped smile. “And a fresh copy of _American Idiot_ that he’d gone to get from Borders while his Grandfather was supposed to be helping him log practice hours for driver’s ed. Because that album changed his life when he first heard it, or anyway that’s what he told me when I opened it.” 

“I mean, I can’t say for _him_?” Lance chimes in. “But that album changed _my_ life. It was the first real punk thing I’d ever heard, yeah? One of my cousins had to make me a ripped copy and write, _‘Prisoner of Azkaban audiobook’_ on the disc ‘cause my Mami thought I was still too young for it. Then I had to get Marisol to do it with the rest of Green Day’s stuff, too. _Then_ she turned me on to all kinds of other stuff, from The Ramones to The Runaways to The Velvet Underground, to slightly less old stuff like Best Revenge and Nick Name And The Normals… She got me into Against Me! and kept hooking me up with all the new music she found when she went off to college… She was my chaperone when my parents let me go to my first Fall-Out Boy show, and every time she found something new for me, it was just like…” 

Lance makes a strange little noise and moves his free hand out from the side of his head, spreading his fingers in a way that Keith guesses is meant to emulate an explosion. “Mind?” Lance says. “Totally freaking _blown_.” 

Keith nods, because that’s probably polite, and guesses that Lance’s story sounds like it was cool. “Mine’s kinda boring, after that…” He doesn’t mean to waste time sharing it, but Lance needles him while he’s polishing off his water. So as he caps up the empty bottle, Keith says, “I mean, it’s not like I hadn’t heard angry music before Shiro got me _American Idiot_ , but? I dunno, something about the album felt angry in the same kind of way that I was. It was like Tré and Mike and Billie Joe totally knew how I felt and what I was going through, like they actually _cared_ …” 

As he trails off, Keith swallows thickly. He’s going to screw things up and start crying again, if he’s not careful; Keith can feel like it. Still, he sighs and finishes with, “But the biggest thing from that album that made a difference? Was that whenever I listened to it, I didn’t have to feel so alone…” 

Which is something Keith’s admitted to exactly three people before, and one of them was himself. Before Lance can get a word in edgewise and get close to appreciating what this means, Keith looks him in the eye and jerks the conversation on a hard left: “Hey, so… I know that I can’t stop you? And with how I’ve treated you, I’m in no position to ask for anything, but… I’d really appreciate it if you _didn’t_ tell Shiro too much about what happened here today? Like, at _least_ can you leave out the part about the _crying_?” 

“I’m not outright saying, ‘No’?” Lance holds up both hands like he’s preemptively trying to keep Keith calm. “But from where I’m sitting? Shiro wouldn’t like it that you were _crying_ about him, but he doesn’t know—” 

“But I _wasn’t_ crying about him, though.” Grinding hard at the bridge of his nose, Keith can’t think of how best to explain this, so he throws out caution and just lets his mouth do what it will. “I mean, I wouldn’t want you telling him that, either. But it’s like, I wasn’t crying about _Shiro_ or about _you_ or about _anything_? A lot of things went into it, but…” 

Slumping into the back-cushion, Keith sighs. “I know this sounds completely stupid, but there wasn’t any convenient _explanation_ for it? I was _just_. _**Crying**_. No reason whatsoever.” 

“That doesn’t sound stupid…” Lance says so immediately and sounds as if he means it, but it takes him a moment’s consideration before he asks, “That happen a lot? Crying for no reason?” 

“Sometimes, I guess? Happened on Monday after I made out with Shiro and made me twenty minutes late to class. Then, there was one night like a week before I yelled at you guys? Y’all were practicing kinda late again and I thought I was gonna scream, but I kept it together…” Another sigh. “Until I went to see if I could bum some of my neighbors’ weed and broke down sobbing on their sofa because their stupid dog jumped up to lick my face? And that’s not — I don’t _mind_ dogs or anything, exactly? I don’t have a great history with them, either, but Beezer’s fine, he’s just honestly not that bright, like he falls off shit all the time and he runs right into walls if he gets too excited…” 

Under the weight of Lance’s skeptical, pointed pout, Keith wilts. “But I mean? That probably happens to everybody, right?” 

“In my experience? No, man. Not really.” At least it isn’t pity twisting up Lance’s face. Concern doesn’t make sense and it makes the hairs on the back of Keith’s neck stand up, but furrowing his brow at Lance doesn’t help, either. It only makes Lance huff. “Keith, I’m not a doctor and I never got to play one when I did theatre club in high school? But crying like that? And doing it all the time—” 

“I do _**not**_ cry like that _all the time_!” 

“—That’s a _problem_ , man. Like, that’s the sorta shit that happens when Shiro’s meds aren’t working. Or it used to happen when he still thought he didn’t need to take them, so obviously they weren’t working since he _wasn’t taking them_ , like…” Slouching toward him, Lance says, “D’you need help finding somebody to talk to? In a therapy kind of sense, I mean? ‘Cause I don’t know your Allura, but she must be cool if Shay’s dating her, and they and Shiro obviously care about you but? This is something you should probably see someone _professional_ about?” 

“I can’t.” Getting into all the reasons why therapists are a waste of money — Keith doesn’t have the energy for that right now. But when Lance snaps at him about being stubborn and how it only makes you worse, Keith holds up his hand and clarifies, “I don’t have _health insurance_ , Lance. Even if I trusted shrinks, I couldn’t see one.” 

“…Oh,” is all Lance has to say. He finishes off his Coke and lobs the can across the room, landing it in a container full of other cans and bottles. Sure, he gives himself a celebratory moment, but it’s limp and before Keith knows which way is up, Lance flops right back into slouching. 

“Jeez,” Lance mutters, giving Keith a smile that doesn’t even bother hiding how fake it is. “Your life’s kinda like a Mountain Goats song waiting to happen, isn’t it?” 

A devious impulse pricks up in Keith’s mind and he forces himself to blink at Lance half-vacantly. “Huh?” 

Lance furrows his brow and wrinkles his nose, looking almost disappointed. “Come on, man. Everything you’ve said today? Dem Goats live for material like that. The fans would eat that shit up.” 

“Wait, they’re teaching goats how to _sing_ now?” Keith’s fingers itch to do something, almost as much as his lips itch to give away the ruse. “Wouldn’t a bunch of singing mountain goats sound fucking _terrible_?” 

“Duuuude, this isn’t freaking _funny_!” Lance whines. “You have to know what I’m talking about and seriously! How has John Darnielle not called you up to collaborate already?” 

“Is…? Is he the guy who _trains_ the singing mountain goats?” Keith shrugs like _Hey, man, what do I know_. “If he is, why do I want to hear from him, exactly? Like, yeah, I’ve screwed up in my life before, but I still haven’t made enough wrong turns to end up teaching fucking _mountain goats_ how to bleat, ‘Ode to Joy’ in six-part harmony.” 

Lance’s groan gets halfway to yelling (which almost makes Keith feel guilty, because whatever else he is, Lance can sing and his voice is worth protecting). Tugging his hands back through his hair, Lance whines, oblivious to the snickering that Keith’s letting slip by now, and starts babbling, “Oh my _God_ , this is so quiznakking… What in the monkey-loving dildo-paste is _wrong_ with you, you couldn’t even _pretend_ to know what I was talking about — _come on, Keith, I was starting to think you might actually be okay_! But then you just? And I’m just all like? And are you _fucking. Serious!_ with me right—” 

“Lance!” Keith only gives himself a smirk for now, and once Lance shuts up, Keith goes with the first lyrics that come to mind, “ _I drove home in the California dusk! I could feel the alcohol inside of me hum. Pictured the look on my step-father’s face, ready for the bad things to coooome! I down-shifted as I pulled into the driveway, the motor screaming out, stuck in second gear_ —” 

“ _The scene ends **badly** , as you might imagine!_” Lance joins in, half-beaming and half-looking like he might actually punch Keith, this time. “ _In a cavalcade of anger and fear!_ ” 

He lunges over to the sofa, bouncing on his knees beside Keith as they sing together, “ _There will be feasting! And dancing! In Jeruuuuusalem next yeeeeeear! I am gonna **make it**! Through this year! If it **kills** me!_ ” 

As Keith finishes the last repetition of that promise, Lance looks happier than he ever has while in Keith’s presence, as if his entire face has been lit up like those obnoxious rich suburban homes that deck the halls with thousands of dollars’ worth of Christmas tree lights, usually starting two days after Thanksgiving. When Keith finishes, Lance toppled into his shoulder, laughing and smacking at Keith’s knee. He yanks Keith into a tight hug around the shoulders, which is nice — until Lance clamps down hard enough to make Keith gasp. 

“You freaking _jerk_ , don’t do that kind of shit to me like you’ve never heard the freaking Mountain Goats!” Point made, though, Lance eases up and musses a hand over Keith’s hair, leaving it stuck up at odd angles. “You had me _going_ , though, like… _Are they teaching mountain goats to sing now?_ Jesus quiznakking Christ…” 

“Sorry,” Keith huffs, not feeling it in the slightest. “But it was _right there_ , and it was _so easy_ …” 

“I _get_ that, but come on… There are some things that just…” 

“Dude, _please_. I was still living with Shiro when _Transcendental Youth_ came out. He spent the three weeks leading up to my nineteenth birthday listening to that, and George Michael, and _absolutely nothing else_.” Blowing a bit of hair off his face, Keith slumps back into the couch again. “Swear to God, if I didn’t love him like I do? I would’ve broken something.” 

Lance starts to say something but abruptly cuts himself off before he gets out two syllables. His expression’s pensive as he glances at the ceiling, and when he looks back at Keith again, he says, “Hey, does your best gal pal like the Mountain Goats? Or might she? ‘cause if so, I _know_ we’ve got some of their vinyl stuff around here somewhere…” 

* * *

> Once upon a time, there was a beautiful boy with a golden voice and a smile like sunshine. He was so warm, and kind, and sweet that everyone who crossed his path fell at least a little bit in love with him. Except for the lesbians, I guess, but since I’m not a lesbian and I haven’t gone around to poll the ones who’ve known him, I’m guessing in the dark here that they’ve liked him well enough but haven’t been In Love with him. 
> 
> But that’s not the point. The point is that he was so full of love that anyone with even an iota of interest in guys simply couldn’t help but fall for him. This meant plenty of girls, and all of them wound up romantically disappointed in the end because he’s gay. But he’d turn on the sunshine on his face and as far as I know, none of them have ever gotten mad at him unless they were homophobic and they saw his gentle rejection as a free excuse to more openly be an asshole. 
> 
> Yeah, he was sad underneath that perfect smile too, and if you paid attention, you could see the kind of pain he lived in, all the time. His parents died when he was nineteen, he pushed himself too hard to be everything that everybody wanted, and sometimes, he put his trust in the exact wrong people. But somehow, he keeps going and he keeps believing and he keeps trying, and that part makes the most sense out of all the illogical, confounding, frustrating things about him that would probably make anybody go crazy, trying to figure them all out. 
> 
> With a beginning like this, we could go so many places, and I’d love nothing more than to tell you that this is a story where the good end happily, the bad end unhappily, Good and Evil are easily distinguishable moral absolutes that can never be questioned or misunderstood, True Love™ ultimately triumphs over all and any opposition, and the boy learns to love himself as much as he loves others. Unfortunately, the world is a terrible place for almost everybody, especially for boys who are warm, kind, sweet, and beautiful, and too trusting for their own good. Worse, unlike what happens in the pretty, cleaned-up Disney fairy tales where street rats get to marry royalty and nobody ever mutilates their daughters to make their feet fit in a stolen shoe, the real monster in this story isn’t the one who most resembles the Big Bad Wolf. 
> 
> Not that Maurice the Wolf was innocent because he wasn’t, but at least he was openly a wolf. He never hid what he was. He never pretended to be anything but a wolf. A friendly wolf, maybe, that’s how he got his paws in the door and made our sad, beautiful boy trust him in the first place — but that still leaves me and what I did to him, which was infinitely worse because I **wasn’t** supposed to hurt him. Not to pretentiously invoke Dante, but if there is a Hell and if it works anything like his version, then I wouldn’t say that I, “look forward” to spending eternity in Judecca with Satan and the eponymous Iscariot? But I’m resigned to that possibility because I know that I deserve it for what I did to Shiro. 
> 
> Oh, and for the record? I don’t care how much you, “encourage” us to share our midterm essays when it’s our next turn to get workshopped, Ryner. I am **not** **ever** , under any circumstances short of you threatening to fail me or complain about me to Kolivan, sharing this bullshit with the rest of the class. I’m only sharing it with you because I have to give you something, none of the other drafts I started could hold my interest, and I’m hoping that this will be enough, “personal connection” to my story that I can spend the rest of the semester writing what I want, i.e. pieces about important things with bigger significance than my own bullshit problems that are nobody’s business **but mine** , and hopefully not getting interrogated about the so-called, **“heart”** of my story as though it actually fucking matters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ETA, now that I’m on an actual laptop and not a tablet: you know how, in Marvel comics, there are entire fictional countries like Wakanda and Latveria? …Well, that’s essentially I’ve done with Altea, Daibazaal, Olkarion, et al.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Things That I Am 5,000.972% Done With (approximately):** myself. My inability to shut up. The fact that I have already forced Keith to acknowledge, in character, that he is _not_ respecting Ryner’s upper word count limit on this essay and just doesn’t have a fuck to give about editing because he hates her class, and yet, keep splitting up what was meant to be _a single goddamn chapter_. How easily distracted I am by all the shiny pieces of this AU that aren’t always directly relevant to the main story but I still think they’re neat (e.g., the story of Antok/Kolivan’s romance and proposal; the fact that this AU’s Blade of Marmora is something Keith would describe as, “So it’s the club from Dead Poets Society but with the Galran members of the history department and Thace’s husband?” and Kolivan would agree that this is accurate; the way Keith and Kolivan wound up working with each other; this one time when Lotor resorted to reading the _Fifty Shades_ books because Shiro didn’t want to talk about BDSM, not even to point him in a better direction than he got from Google, accidentally triggered Shiro by reading them out loud to make fun of the terrible writing, and actually felt bad about it; how Shiro and Iverson know each other; and so on, and so forth).
> 
> —Also, I’m done trying to predict how long my chapters are going to be, because I’ve been going, “Oh, it’s cool, the next chapter isn’t gonna be _that_ long” since I started writing chapter four, and look how that turned out. Best laid plans and all that rubbish, huh? ……But I seriously intend to stick to, “I will not make any predictions about how long the next stupid chapter is going to end up being” this time.
> 
> Of course, that’s what I’ve told myself the past several times, so I probably will not stick to this, but it’s nice to have a dream.

_[7:49 PM]: Hey, so, I’m not making accusations, but Lance isn’t explaining anything right now_  
_[7:50 PM]: What did you two do to each other this afternoon?_

_[7:53 PM]: Shay took me to the record store to look for Allura’s birthday present. Lance helped me find it._  
_[7:55 PM]: We argued, he gave me a death metal history lesson, I taught him some Altean, and we reached a better understanding of each other as human beings_  
_[7:55 PM]: It was very grown up of us except for all the parts that weren’t_

_[7:58 PM]: Again, not making accusations but_  
_[7:58 PM]: I suspect a lot is being redacted right now?_

_[7:58 PM]: Yeah, it totally is._  
_[7:59 PM]: Because it involved both of us being dicks to each other_  
_[7:59 PM]: Me more so than him, though_  
_[8:00 PM]: He was on what I assume was his best behavior?_  
_[8:01 PM]: Between the two of us, he just wanted to ask what my intentions were with you and make sure that I plan on treating you right, while I accused him of being a cheating bastard without any evidence_

_[8:01 PM]: Cheating bastard…?_

_[8:02 PM]: Oh, I thought he and Hunk were already together_  
_[8:03 PM]: Romantically, I mean_  
_[8:04 PM]: So when Hunk told me about Lance kissing guys other than him, I jumped to conclusions about Lance that were very wrong_  
_[8:05 PM]: There was some embittered thinking like, “God, why isn’t Hunk enough for you, he’s sweet AND gorgeous, the total package”_  
_[8:07 PM]: But I apologized for that and for picking on him, and he apologized for some of his stuff_  
_[8:09 PM]: And the point is, it all worked out in a way where we mutually agreed to stop acting like six-year-olds, possibly reached said better understanding of each other, and we’re going to stop putting you in the middle between us_

_[8:09 PM]: I haven’t felt like I’ve been put in the middle?_  
_[8:10 PM]: Well no, okay, that’s not exactly true_  
_[8:11 PM]: I can see how things could’ve gone that way, but so far, I just felt like you two didn’t like each other_

_[8:11 PM]: Yeah, but you like both of us_  
_[8:12 PM]: And apparently I wasn’t the only one voicing how I didn’t like him in your direction_

_[8:12 PM]: Oh you definitely weren’t_  
_[8:13 PM]: Lance is very vocal_  
_[8:13 PM]: About basically everything_  
_[8:13 PM]: Especially about things that annoy him_

_[8:14 PM]: Well being vocal makes sense for a singer_  
_[8:15 PM]: I complimented his singing by the way_  
_[8:17 PM]: I mean I actually told him to drink some tea and extra water tonight because we raised our voices at each other and his is worth protecting_  
_[8:18 PM]: But I think that’s a fairly obvious compliment_  
_[8:18 PM]: Either way, I think we’re still not fans of each other but we’re working on it_  
_[8:19 PM]: “This Year” and “Jesus of Suburbia” were involved_

_[8:19 PM]: Ah, the healing power of music ❤️_

_[8:19 PM]: Yeah sure, something like that_

_[8:21 PM]: well, whether you two are each other’s fans or not, I’m glad you’re working on things_  
_[8:22 PM]: And I DIDN’T feel stuck in the middle_  
_[8:23 PM]: To me, that implies that you guys were making me choose between you? Which I didn’t feel like you were_  
_[8:25 PM]: But it means a lot to me that you’re working on it instead of letting things get that far_  
_[8:28 PM]: I got confused tonight cause Lance got home from work, told me that you have pretty eyes and acceptable taste in music, then disappeared into the shower_  
_[8:30 PM]: He spent the whole time belting Paula Abdul’s greatest hits and “Tell It To My Heart”_

_[8:32 PM]: Is that what he does when he’s upset?_

_[8:33 PM]: Oh no, more like restless_  
_[8:34 PM]: Which could mean upset but it could mean a lot of things_  
_[8:34 PM]: But I got us dinner and he still didn’t tell me what he was on about_  
_[8:35 PM]: So, thanks for clearing that up and for working on things with him_

_[8:36 PM]: Don’t expect too much_  
_[8:37 PM]: I think we could out-stubborn each other til the cows come home and still keep going_

_[8:38 PM]: Probably yeah_  
_[8:39 PM]: If I had to place bets on who’d win, I actually would feel stuck between you guys_  
_[8:40 PM]: cause that contest would be anybody’s game_

_[8:41 PM]: Whatever, I acquiesce that he is not that bad_  
_[8:43 PM]: And I didn’t tell you this but his bass-lines are the thing that really tie some of your songs together for me_  
_[8:45 PM]: There was one that you played on Saturday that was a lot like Queen’s, “You’re My Best Friend” but kinda punkier and more explicitly romantic?_  
_[8:46 PM]: He was really good in that one. Vocally AND on his bass_  
_[8:47 PM]: I was paying attention to rest of you too but ignoring him in that number was hard_

_[8:49 PM]: I read absolutely nothing ❤️_  
_[8:50 PM]: But yeah that one’s a favorite of his_  
_[8:50 PM]: He wrote it about Hunk but I don’t think Hunk knows_  
_[8:51 PM]: Which I don’t get, it’s not exactly subtle?_

_[8:52 PM]: Hey, sometimes people get what they want to get_  
_[8:52 PM]: Or don’t as the case may be_

_[8:53 PM]: Yeah and in fairness Hunk has some self-esteem issues sometimes_  
_[8:54 PM]: I mean he’s the stablest person in the band by like ten miles_  
_[8:56 PM]: But Lance likes to say that you could drop a box full of hints at his feet, and have it wrapped up nice and pretty with a tag that has Hunk’s name on it, and Hunk would pick it up and dust it off and give it to me instead_  
_[8:56 PM]: and yeah, that is accurate_

_[8:57 PM]: Yeah like Lance can talk_  
_[8:58 PM]: He totally bought it when I jerked him around like I didn’t know who the Mountain Goats are_  
_[8:59 PM]: I was like, “What, are they teaching actual literal goats to sing” and he thought I was serious_

_[9:00 PM]: Yeah well your particular sense of humor can take some getting used to ❤️_

_[9:01 PM]: At least it’s more advanced than dad jokes and bad puns_

_[9:01 PM]: Hang on_  
_[9:13 PM]: [attached, one image]_

_[9:14 PM]: You’re such a fucking dork_

_[9:15 PM]: Yes, but am I your favorite dork?_

_[9:15 PM]: Mmm, classified information_  
_[9:16 PM]: I neither confirm nor deny anything at this time_  
_[9:16 PM]: Not currently at liberty to disclose it_

_[9:16 PM]: Rude_

_[9:17 PM]: Off the record, though? My neighbors’ magic 8 ball says the outlook’s good_  
_[9:18 PM]: And I think it’s got the right idea_

_[9:18 PM]: Encouraging, but still rude ❤️_

_[9:19 PM]: Because that’s news…?_  
_[9:19 PM]: For what it’s worth, you’re my favorite dweeb_  
_[9:19 PM]: Which is very different from a dork_

_[9:20 PM]: Oh is it really?_  
_[9:20 PM]: I had no idea but now you’ve got me curious_

_[9:21 PM]: Oh yeah, we had a whole thing about it in the taxonomy part of the intro bio class I took back in Chicago_  
_[9:22 PM]: It was very scientific_  
_[9:24 PM]: There’s some overlap like how coconuts are clearly not animals but they make milk which is what’s supposed to make mammals special_  
_[9:25 PM]: But the basic idea is that dweebs are cuter than dorks_  
_[9:26 PM]: Usually a bit flashier but still cuter_

_[9:27 PM]: You say the sweetest things_  
_[9:29 PM]: How’s your essay going? ❤️_  


_[9:31 PM]: Still sucks and the assignment’s still garbage_  
_[9:33 PM]: “Write what’s in your heart” works better when your heart isn’t confused as shit_

_[9:35 PM]: Reminds me of something I was talking to Robin and Mr. Phalen about today_  
_[9:36 PM]: (Robin being my sponsor at AA/NA, he’s great)_  
_[9:37 PM]: Do you mind if I scripture you for a second? ❤️_

_[9:37 PM]: Go ahead_  
_[9:38 PM]: But thanks for asking first_

_[9:40 PM]: “The heart is deceitful above all things and beyond cure. Who can understand it? I the LORD search the heart and mind, to reward each person according to their conduct, according to what their deeds deserve” — Jeremiah 17:9-10 (NIV)_

_[9:41 PM]: Somehow I don’t think that’s about what I’m dealing with in its original context_

_[9:42 PM]: It’s not but look at it with your whole self, not just your historian brain_  
_[9:42 PM]: Search your feelings_

_[9:42 PM]: Okay, Darth Shiro_

_[9:43 PM]: (Pretend I’m doing the Darth Vader breathing in your ear)_  
_[9:45 PM]: Mr. Phalen pointed me at that while we were talking about uncertainty over lunch, then I liked it took it to Robin_  
_[9:48 PM]: (Mr. Phalen isn’t like overbearingly religious or anything. He got a PhD in religious studies before opening the bookstore. I could get his dissertation if you ever want to read it? He took more of a historian’s approach to reading Isaiah, Jeremiah, and Ezekiel so you might like it)_  
_[9:50 PM]: Anyway, there was a lot of complaining from me about how it’s so easy to feel certain about some things but then still feel totally lost about others, and he gave me that_  
_[9:51 PM]: Apparently his husband quoted that passage when he proposed and it worked?_

_[9:53 PM]: Weird. But my advisor and his husband had a weird proposal too. Yelling and Ring Pops were involved_  
_[9:56 PM]: I’m still not really sure what I’m feeling about all of this_  
_[9:58 PM]: But I think I’ve got a better idea, so I’m gonna write more before bed. Thanks ❤️_

_[10:00 PM]: Any time, beautiful ❤️_

*** * ***

Keith looks at Shiro’s latest drawing for him a few more times before he nods off on Wednesday night. He checks it again in the morning, and even though he’s certain that he didn’t imagine it, he smiles at it before Kolivan shows up and class gets started, then another time after their time is up. When he’s out of class for the day, it’s a matter of killing time until Shay and Allura have been cut loose, too.

Uptown, they have the townhouse to themselves. Sure, Alfor and Coran will be home eventually but right now, Keith, Allura, and Shay could, in theory, sprawl all over every room they wanted. Even so, they end up in Allura’s bedroom like always, ordering pizza for dinner because none of them feels like thinking too hard about what they want to eat. When Allura goes to take a shower, Keith decides he’s tired of wearing his jeans when he and Shay are sleeping over and boxers are just as good. While Alfor’s finicky ginger cat meanders between him and Shay, choosing who to rub up against, based on who’s giving her more attention at any given moment, Keith could theoretically help himself to any of Allura’s books, or to one of her old Game Boys, or to one of the games on _her_ phone because she doesn’t have to worry about the charges that can rack up over a few levels of Candy Crush.

Instead, he keeps looking back at his saved copy of that doodle that Shiro sent last night. It’s another cartoonish-looking one, more like Hello Kitty than Shiro’s usual style. If he hadn’t colored the little polka-dot bikini-wearing lioness in red, Keith might not have guessed that she’s meant to be _his_ Red. Somewhat more important to the point Shiro thought that he was making, she’s riding a surfboard down the outpour from an erupting volcano. Underneath the picture are the words, _“YOU KNOW YOU LAVA IT”_ and a heart with curving lines around the edges that, according to Shiro, indicate that it’s beating.

With a huff, Keith slouches against the foot of Allura’s bed and flicks back to his texts. Nothing new from Shiro, not since he replied to a, _“waiting for Gothic Literary Traditions to start”_ selfie from Keith with the kissy-face emoji that has a heart beside it. Before he can get too hung up on what he is or isn’t allowed to do, Keith fires off, _“Question?”_

He’s still typing it out when two messages pop up from Shiro: _“Answer!”_ followed by, _“Sorry, had an intense afternoon, I couldn’t resist. What’s up? ❤️”_

_“You’re a nerd, but that’s not news. Or a question. Or anything that I’m objecting to at all.”_ It takes a silent count of ten to recenter himself enough to type it out again, but finally, Keith sends, _“Were you serious about wanting to give me a birthday kiss?”_

Lest Shiro think Keith’s casting doubt on the earnestness of his intentions, Keith hastily adds, _“I ask because I currently have no plans for my birthday”_

There, excellent. No aspersions and no doubts, because Keith doesn’t want those getting thrown on Shiro’s comment about birthday kisses. He may not be certain of anything bigger between them or about what Shiro wants or about where any of this might go — but at the very least, Keith knows that Shiro wouldn’t offer to kiss him without planning to make good on it, should Keith accept.

Keith’s tapping his thumb against his phone when Shiro’s reply finally pops up, _“Oh, my. Well, I’m free on Monday night. I could provide you with a source of plans, if you were so inclined?”_

_“I am.”_ That feels like it should be enough, and yet, Keith’s mind decides to kick him in the shins with half-formed clips of what Lance snapped at him about Shiro yesterday, and he finds himself firing off a follow-up, _“I really want to see you.”_

The ellipses on Shiro’s end pop up and hover for a few moments. Keith holds his breath and curls his fingers up in Allura’s fluffy, high-maintenance pink rug, bracing for the worst — but Shiro’s response is just, _“I’d like that, too. But are you sure you don’t have plans? You shouldn’t blow off your friends just to see me ❤️”_

_“Allura’s taking Shay on a long weekend to her Mother’s place in the Poconos. She already asked if I could cover getting extra handouts for them if there are any in the classes we have together, so I don’t think they’ll be back in time for plans?”_

Which probably merits a bit of clarification, now that Keith thinks about it. _“Allura and I have the same birthday. And you’re half-right, we usually do have plans with each other for it. But since she’s not going to be here, I’m free. And either way, I want to see you.”_

While Shiro’s ellipses keep popping up and disappearing, Keith tries to tune out the sound of a bouncing box-spring and Shay shuffling around Allura’s mattress. Not that it’s necessarily something private, but admittedly, Keith has no idea what Shay is up to or if she might want some modicum of privacy. He keeps staring at his phone, tapping at it with his thumb, scrolling up and down his texts often enough to keep his screen from fading out. Either Shiro’s having second thoughts or he’s writing a fucking novel over there. Or maybe he keeps getting interrupted. Maybe the band is having another practice tonight and he’s texting in between moving stuff around. Maybe he’s not sure how to say what’s on his mind.

Behind Keith, the mattress dips. Above his head, Shay clears her throat. He sits up enough to glance over his shoulder at her, lying on her stomach and propped up on her elbows, smiling down at him with something that almost looks like fondness. Keith gives her a wave before leaning back into his comfy spot.

“You are staring at that thing rather intently,” Shay points out after a moment.

Shiro still hasn’t texted back, so Keith shrugs and deadpans, “Apparently, it’s possessed by a dead physicist and she’s telling me how to solve cold fusion like I have any idea what it means.” Tilting his head back doesn’t let Keith look at her that well, but it’s a slightly better angle for an awkward smirk and, “Also, I’m texting Shiro.”

“Oooooh…” Shay smiles curiously. “About what?”

“The sexual politics of _Hocus Pocus_. Like, if a girl’s had sex with another girl but it wasn’t penetrative, does she count as a virgin, in the Black Flame Candle’s mind? Or if a guy’s been with other guys but hasn’t taken a dick before, is _he_ a virgin, or does it count if he’s done the penetrating? And what about oral? Could Max have gone all the way with Allison and still counted as a virgin because he’d never had anybody’s junk in his mouth or his ass…”

Shay snickers appreciatively at his overgrown joke, but before Keith can enjoy that, it makes guilt worm around his chest over him putting so much effort into the deflection with someone who’s closer to having Keith’s trust than most people who aren’t named Shiro or Allura. It’s not even like he has a reason to distrust Shay, one that’s based on _evidence_ instead of Keith’s own preconceived ideas. She’s never been anything but kind to him, and besides, she makes his best friend happy. Anyway, based the past week’s events, Keith’s own preconceived ideas are looking about as reliable as a house of cards on a shaky table in the middle of an earthquake.

With a sigh, he adds, “Also, I’m asking Shiro to spend time with me on the twenty-third and give me a birthday kiss.”

Tilting her head a bit to the side, Shay gives him a pensive hum. She deadpans, “With tongue?”

Keith can’t help snorting. “Is there any _other_ kind of birthday kiss?” He glances down at his phone and sees that Shiro’s ellipses are back, but since he’s taking his time, Keith tacks on, “I mean, if he’d rather not, then I’ll live? But whether he’s kissing me on the mouth or in the pants, I assume that tongue is on the table as a possibility.”

“But Sober Keith _isn’t_ hung up on this guy?” With a soft sigh, Shay reaches down to nudge a clump of hair back off Keith’s forehead. “Or at least you don’t want to think that you’re hung up on this guy and don’t want _us_ to think you are?”

As if on cue, Keith’s phone buzzes: _“Sorry, we had to figure out dinner so we could eat before practice ❤️ (and sorry in advance, it’ll probably go pretty late tonight, Pidge had something on campus so we’re starting later than we’d like ❤️)”_

Another quickly follows: _“Good thing tho, I was gonna suggest karaoke but Hunk reminded me it’s not ’til the 3rd”_

Pressing his lips together and tapping out a quick reply ( _“I’m sleeping over at Allura’s tonight anyway, she had a rough time for midterms”_ ), Keith huffs. “I admit that I am hung up on this guy. But that doesn’t make my feelings any less messy or conflicted or… y’know? Difficult and stupid. Or whatever, if I’m not allowed to call them _stupid_ , then… I don’t know?”

He shrugs and all that he can come up with doesn’t feel like an improvement, “I like seeing him again, but it’s complicated?”

He sends Shiro, _“But extra time is better for that offer. Based on certain precedents, I may need to prepare myself for any karaoke nights with you. Which isn’t me saying, ‘No.’ Just that if we go, having prep time is better for me”_

So quickly, it seems like he didn’t need to think at all, Shiro replies, _“Fair enough. Encouraging, actually. Based on those same precedents (I’m guessing…?), I was expecting you to shoot me down outright ❤️”_

_“That was then. Reservations about karaoke still stand but I always love to hear you sing, nerd.”_

—Which is true, but isn’t helping them make any plans for Monday. So, Keith shoots off another reply, _“But really, we don’t have to do anything fancy for my birthday? I’d be happy just hanging out or something”_

“That’s fair. And you don’t have to explain anything if you don’t want to,” Shay says lightly, like she wants to say something more or like maybe she’s hoping that Keith will bring it up himself. When he keeps tapping at his screen instead, she sighs and Keith cannot, for the life of him, get any kind of read on it.

Keith sends to Shiro, _“Even kissing would be nice but optional, it’s not as important as seeing you.”_ Tilting his head back again, he says to Shay, “You okay?”

She nods, but still has a look that’s as close as he’s ever seen her get to brooding. Which is… weird for Shay, to say the least. So, Keith shoves off from the bed and, with a bit of awkward shifting on Allura’s rug, turns himself around to face Shay properly. The new vantage point does not make her expression look _different_ so much as upright and easier to process. No easier to interpret, but at least Keith can see Shay’s round, soft cheeks and her gentle eyes that still make so little sense to him. She’s leaning on her elbows, not quite toward him but not quite pulling back either, simply _being there_ , like it’s just that easy.

Maybe it is, for other people. Maybe Lance was right about more than Keith’s already giving him credit for. Meaning, more than the parts about Shiro, and what he’s been through, and how Keith may need to swallow his pride, question some of his own long-held assumptions, and just go ask that beautiful genius idiot about certain songs that apparently have more tied up in them than Keith realized. Maybe Lance was right about Keith’s life being perfect fodder for a Mountain Goats album and how this might not actually be a good thing, considering what John Darnielle puts in several of his songs.

None of which helps Keith, at the moment, though, because he still needs to address the issue of how Shay’s looking at him. Scratching at the back of his neck, he sighs and says, “D’you think Allura would be up for some karaoke on the third? I mean, Shiro mentioned that it’s happening. Not that we talked the details exactly, since we’re talking about _Monday_ , but…? If I don’t go with him, which I might not, then the three of us could go instead? It’s kind of been a while since we really… did something to blow off steam?”

Shay blinks at him for a moment, then shrugs. “As long as you promise not to sing, ‘Uptown Girl,’ I think she’s always game for karaoke.”

Although Keith doesn’t frown, it’s a pretty close call. He’d hardly call himself a fan of Billy Joel, but when he and Allura were dating, that song came up more than its fair share. At first, it was a drunk-but-not-that-drunk joke on karaoke night and Allura had slept over at his dormitory after making sure he got there in one piece. The second time, she’d dragged him to some low-key dance that the student activities committee had thrown together as a last hurrah before finals week, and he’d asked the DJ to dedicate it to her. The third time, after winter break, they’d been grabbing breakfast at Java Hut and Allura had been furrowing her brow the whole time at Keith’s choice of ladyfinger cookies, which he hadn’t even liked that much but they were cheaper than any other option. When she decided to get another cappuccino and pointedly suggested that her boyfriend _please_ let her buy him something more substantial, Keith realized that he felt _guilty_ for lying to her about having lost his student housing — or about trying to hide it from her, anyway, which was still lying by omission, even if he didn’t spin too many outright fabrications.

Then, because it clearly wasn’t enough to endure feeling like he had vipers clamping around his lungs and an anvil smacking him in the chest, Keith heard their song start up on the speakers and glanced to where Allura waited in the line. Pale sunlight filtered in through the window and glinted off her messy morning bun, and she waved at him and smiled like this wasn’t all a game to her, like Keith wasn’t simply a distracting street rat who she enjoyed enough to treat with real kindness, not the well-meaning pity so many other people have tried to throw his way before. Her face was warm and inviting. Her eyes got that sparkly look that sometimes, she just can’t help. She looked at Keith like he actually might’ve been somebody special, and his heart felt like a car that didn’t want to start. He blushed as he forced a smile and waved back, trying to ignore the pink, summery feeling that flooded his chest every time his heart managed a flutter, trying to push down the thought that Allura’s own specialness had nothing to do with being the daughter of a brilliant author and a genius scientist-turned-diplomat.

When Allura finally turned away, Keith slumped onto the table and groaned softly, knocking his forehead against his arms as Mr. Piano Man mocked him, crooning, _“She’ll see I’m not so tough / Just because / I’m in love with an uptown girl…”_

All up, Keith can’t _blame_ Shay for not wanting her girlfriend’s ex to sing their old song at karaoke night, but in his own defense, he still points out, “Okay, I haven’t done that for her _sober_ since we were still together. And the last time Drunk Keith broke out that number, _yeah_ , you two’d just started dating? But it was right after she had that fight with her Mother and all Drunk Keith wanted to do was embarrass himself and make his favorite Princess laugh.”

“Drunk Keith managed that quite successfully,” she says, “and Sober Shay didn’t have a problem with it. I still don’t. The hypothetical Billy Joel ban… Well, it did have something to do with how you and Allura dated, but I don’t think it’s in the way you’re thinking?”

She pauses for thought again, but it doesn’t take long before Shay’s explaining, “If we bring up karaoke, then Allura will probably want to know where we heard about it. If she asks where we heard about it, then you will probably end up mentioning Shiro because you’re a bad liar when someone puts you on the spot. If you say that, then the Princess will ask if Shiro wants to come with us, too—”

“And if I give one of Allura’s mice a cookie, then Platt will break out of their home again, devour the entire kitchen, and probably get little mousey diabetes.” Keith blows at a stray piece of hair, but trying to out-stubborn him, it flops back into place. “And your point is… which, exactly?”

“Mostly that Allura will probably try to make this thing a double-date. If that happens, she won’t want you to sing, ‘Uptown Girl’ when your guy could easily misinterpret it. Because she wants you to be happy, and causing drama with Shiro over karaoke choices doesn’t sound like it’d help with that.” Shay shrugs and smiles like she’s daring Keith to find an argument, then tacks on, “But that’s only one woman’s speculation, so who knows.”

Narrowing his eyes at Allura’s wall, Keith tries to find a counterpoint, but all he comes up with is, “Note taken.”

Not that it particularly helps, but it does make Keith check his phone faster when it finally buzzes with a text from Shiro: _“Well, if nothing comes to mind, consider me on call for the whole day. But we really don’t have to kiss if you don’t want to ❤️”_

For all he means to keep the groaning to himself, Keith can’t manage it. While Shay’s trying to ask what’s wrong and if he’s okay, he hits Shiro back with, _“I told you that I want to. I was just saying that seeing you is more important to me than kissing you.”_

Once the ball’s back in Shiro’s court, Keith drops his phone between his folded-up legs and tells Shay, “Boys are _stupid_.”

He leans back, palms flat on the rug, and waits for her to respond. But all she does is knot her brow like Keith’s started rattling off Ancient Greek. Shaking out his hair, he says, “I thought it was _nice_ to say you care more about seeing somebody than whether or not they put their tongue in your mouth? Like, ‘Yeah, making out with you is nice, but even if we don’t, I care more about spending time with you.’ I mean? Valuing somebody for more than how they kiss is a _good_ thing, right? Or are we trying to _encourage_ people to be total assholes who, I don’t know? Who don’t care about the person or want to hurt them or… I don’t _**know**_?”

But as he’s saying so, Keith slouches and plays over some of the other facts in his head. Closing his eyes doesn’t really help him think or help him sort through everything, but he has to come up with _something_. “Okay, actually? Some of the pieces here… Looking at everything here from _his_ perspective, like, or trying to? With some of what he’s been saying about _consent_ and some of what we did back in _Chicago_ , and with Shiro doing the whole _sobriety_ thing, now?”

With a sigh, Keith looks back up at Shay and admits, “We messed around when we lived in Chicago, right? For _most_ of it, he was really _not_ -sober, but apart from the time we shotgunned Mark’s weed, and one time involving Percocet and Leonard Cohen, Shiro would never even _kiss me_ if I’d had more than a couple drinks? I think he only cuddled me when he let me try out his Vicodin because all it did was make me feel sick and depressed, so he felt bad about it? But as seriously as he took _my_ ability to consent? He didn’t care that much about his _own_? Like, one time, he was so messed up, he told me that it didn’t _matter_ if he was high, because he wouldn’t even…”

Curling his legs up to his chest, Keith rocks into them and puts his chin on his knees. He takes a moment before saying, “…The whole thing of it? That’s probably not my business to tell or not? But point is, I think… Maybe he was getting hung up on the consent here _not_ because he was doubting me? Maybe it was more for _himself_ than me? Just… Hang on?”

Keith sends Shiro, _“Are you okay?”_

Setting his phone back on the rug, he expects Shay to have some amazing analysis for him. Instead, she frowns and asks, “How are you doing?”

Which is honestly an unfair question, but not giving Shay an answer isn’t actually an option, so Keith shrugs. “Aside from feeling like an insensitive idiot and probably kind of an asshole? Yeah. Totally fine.”

Shay huffs. “I mean in a more _general_ kinda sense, Keith?”

“…Oh.” _Well, that’s an even more unfair question_ — but strictly speaking, Keith probably can’t hold the asking against Shay? Especially not when she points out that he’d obviously cried pretty hard before class on Monday and at the record store—

“And I haven’t told a certain _someone_ …” She nods toward the door, but she doesn’t need to.

“I know you mean Allura.” Keith tries to roll his eyes, but for once, he doesn’t have the energy. “Seriously, who else are you gonna _tell_?” _Well, maybe Kolivan would care, but that’s probably more my wishful thinking and anyway, he has a department to run and bigger things to worry about than my bullshit non-problems._

Buzzing again, Keith’s phone finally gives up a reply from Shiro: _“I think I got in my own head and I misread your text as you feeling obligated or pressured to kiss me, instead of what you actually meant. So, I’m sorry for that ❤️”_

Keith ponders for a moment, then sends him back, _“It’s fine. Tone can be hard. I’m sorry that I could’ve phrased my side better. But I absolutely do want to kiss you. I just didn’t want you to feel like I was only interested in that or like putting my tongue in your mouth mattered more to me than you did.”_

_“I know you better than that. You’re not that kind of person, Keith ❤️”_

Thankful that Shiro’s not here to see him blushing and probably looking like a flustered, emotionally unstable tomato, Keith types out, _“You’re the kind of person who’s ignoring my original question. Are you feeling okay?”_ before he can dwell too much on whether or not it’s a good idea.

Shiro’s ellipses hesitate for a bit before his reply comes through: _“I feel kind of stupid for misreading things but mostly okay. I think I just got weird about this because of some stuff that came up in therapy today”_

_“Oh, I’m sorry.”_ But letting that one linger might make Shiro pull out some potentially self-blaming nonsense about how it’s not Keith’s fault, so he hastily adds, _“Since it’s not like your issues are gonna apologize for themselves or anything”_

_“I don’t know if I could forgive them if they did,”_ Shiro says back and Keith can almost hear the voice he might use for it if he were here: tired, kind of deadpan but only halfway there, not completely self-abasing but certainly not showing himself the sort of kindness that Keith thinks he deserves. But before Keith can get another word in, Shiro sends him, _“I mean, if they could apologize, they’d probably keep gnawing on me anyway, and I think you of all people know why I’d be leery of my issues apologizing then continuing to hurt me?”_

_“I can guess.”_ Before Keith can stop himself, he types out another, attaching the heart emoji because putting heart-shaped symbols on the ends of things means more to Shiro than it ever has to Keith, so maybe he’ll get some comfort out of it: _“You don’t have to talk about him if you don’t want to. But if you do, I’ll listen ❤️”_

_“Not like this. Whenever we go there, I want to do it face-to-face. But thanks, Keith. ❤️”_ There are so many ways to interpret what Shiro’s said and way too many levels that it’s working on. But once more, he keeps Keith from dwelling on that too much: _“jsyk, I want to kiss you again but spending time with you is more important to me, too ❤️”_

Keith should probably say something back. But his cheeks are going hot again, so he puts his phone down and looks back up at Shay and her pointedly arched eyebrows.

“As I was saying before your boy interrupted? I’d rather not tell Allura about what you’re going through because it’s _your_ business?” Even so, Shay’s deep breath makes Keith’s hitch in his throat and makes him hold onto his legs tighter. “But I do think you should tell her yourself? If you’re having more trouble than usual? Or if you need help?”

“Yeah, but… It’s hard for me to tell when I should even _think about_ asking, ‘cause I’m sort of a mess in general? And I don’t remember ever _not_ being a mess? I mean, right now, there’s the sudden unexpected Shiro factor? But even if he sticks around this time, that’ll settle down and I’m not…” Keith sighs and hugs his shins, curling closer into himself.

But it doesn’t really _help_ , and Keith doesn’t even get any grounding from the pain of bending up his legs so much. “Look, I don’t think I have any good answers for you. Probably none you want to hear, anyway,” he says after thinking for a moment. “But I’m too stubborn not to keep going or whatever, I mean? Enduring isn’t exactly _new_ for me, y’know? Kind of a recurring theme in my life. If you can’t fix it, you’ve gotta stand it, right?”

When Shay goes skin-crawlingly silent, Keith looks up into a frown that almost gets all the way to scowling. “Did you just quote _Brokeback Mountain_ at me?”

“Oh, is _that_ where I got that line from?” Keith isn’t trying to gape, but he isn’t fighting it off, either. He only bothers explaining anything because Shay looks more than a bit perplexed: “I watched it with Shiro in Chicago! He made me read the novella first and everything, and I thought I forgot _everything_ but the fucking, ‘I wish I knew how to quit you’ scene!”

_That and the way Shiro paused the movie after that and held me while I cried, and didn’t even ask me why but thank God or thank fuck or thank **something** because I don’t think I could’ve stood to tell him it was mostly over him in ways that I could not put fucking words on at the time, so help me God. Better for him to think it was pent-up shit from my one foster family who—_

“I’m just saying?” Shay chimes in, mercifully jerking Keith out of his own thoughts. “Pulling out _Brokeback_ anything while trying to convince me you’re okay? Isn’t really working how I think you want it to.”

His phone buzzes again, with Shiro asking, _“Are you okay? ❤️”_

“Shay, I’d lose most of my respect for you if you believed me about… Literally any claims about being emotionally healthy.” Dragging his hand back through his hair, Keith tries to figure out a reply for Shiro that doesn’t feel like he’s lying. “Right now, I don’t think I could even convince myself that I’m okay.”

*** * ***

> As far as I can remember, I’ve only blown off school for someone’s funeral three times in my life, and I didn’t particularly like any of the decedents. I guess I disliked the first one, my late aunt, the least of them, or I can’t recall having any particular issues with her. Her apartment had stunk like the scented candles and air freshening spray she used to cover up the smell of her seven cats, and sometimes I felt like I was the only boy or man she didn’t hate, which felt like it was only because I reminded her so much of my Mom, but I figured that she probably couldn’t help any of that. Then, she may not have known when my parents were coming back to get me from her apartment but she took care of me when they weren’t around and made me feel like I had an actual family. Even if I had minded her, I felt like I owed her, and however I felt about her, I wasn’t happy when she died.
> 
> The third one was Bryce’s grandfather, and calling that old bastard a real piece of work would’ve been a heinous insult to everyone else who has ever been called a real piece of work. Maybe it was just personal distaste giving him extra points, but since I’d been placed with Bryce’s family, Grandpa Bill had been calling me a Chinese Communist, and that was on a good day. Both of my parents were multiracial and I don’t know all of what I am, but one of the few clear memories I have of my Mom was one time after she picked me up from kindergarten and overheard some of my classmates teasing me. She sat me in the front seat of her car even though I wasn’t tall enough and told me in no uncertain terms that absolutely none of me was Chinese. The East Asian part of me, she said, was that she and my Dad were both partially Korean.
> 
> According to Grandpa Bill, though, that was basically the same thing as being Chinese and despite not even knowing what, “Communist” meant at the time, I was supposed to be an agent working for Chairman Mao, who was allegedly very much alive and living in one neighbor family’s basement. True, the neighbor family was Chinese, but like most of Grandpa Bill’s accusations against anybody about anything, the idea that the Huangs were plotting to destroy America came out of two things and neither of them was direct evidence. On one hand, Grandpa Bill was a flaming racist pig who hated everyone who wasn’t white and WASPish. On the other hand, you had his over-fondness for Valium, which never seemed to chill him out so much as it made him more willing to say whatever the fuck he wanted. His pills only made him more tolerable after Bryce’s parents tried to cut him off.
> 
> Probably needless to say, I was not especially sorry when Death finally came to smack this decrepit old fuck who had, among other things, helped his grandson lock me in the cupboard under the stairs and had his Rottweiler chase me up a tree for kicks. If anything, I was happy that he’d taunted a coral snake during a long weekend camping excursion and, refusing to take his shit, it bit him. While the pastor was reading from St. Paul’s first letter to the Corinthians, I hoped that there was a Hell like my fire-and-brimstone Baptist preacher foster uncle had described so that Grandpa Bill could burn there. I only bothered pretending otherwise because Bryce’s parents weren’t terrible people. They’d done what they could for me, and had their son and Mr. Taylor’s father not been so good at covering their tracks and making me complicit in that with the threats of what would happen if I tattled on them? I like to think that Mr. and Mrs. Taylor would have stepped in more often and more effectively.
> 
> One of my pieces of evidence for believing that came with the funeral between Aunt Hana and Grandpa Bill, for Shiro’s paternal grandfather, the first Shirogane Takashi.
> 
> As far as Mr. and Mrs. Taylor were concerned (at least, as far as I knew), Shiro was Bryce’s friend, not mine. He treated me better than most of the kids my own age, which was nice, and he tutored me in algebra because, coming out of the private school that my Baptist foster family had sent us to with its inscrutable so-called curriculum, I’d had to test for placement in different subjects, and although I’d wound up in a more advanced math class, I constantly felt lost. But Shiro wasn’t supposed to be my friend, Bryce didn’t want to go to the funeral because he didn’t feel like it and thought Shiro had hated his namesake anyway, and based on the handful of interactions I’d had with the man, I wasn’t his biggest fan either, so by all appearances, there was no real reason for me to be at the funeral.
> 
> The biggest reason why I wasn’t especially fond of Grandfather Shirogane came during my third visit to the Shirogane kitchen table for tutoring. About halfway through the session, Ryou joined me and Shiro, and while I was finishing the worksheet my teacher had sent home that night, Ryou decided to tease his brother about the guy from the high school’s swim-and-dive team who Shiro had a crush on at the time.
> 
> At first, this was confusing. In retrospect, I think my Aunt Hana may have been a lesbian, but apart from a sanitized and Disneyfied version of how my Mom and Dad had fallen in love and had me, she never discussed anything even sex-adjacent with me before she died. Back with my Baptist foster family, I’d only heard about LGBTQ anything in the context of how our sexualities or gender identities (but mostly sexualities) were temptations from Satan and anyone who, “gave in to them” was damned for all time because Jesus said so. With all the times I heard anything like that from them, I really didn’t get why it mattered or why Jesus even gave a crap who wanted to get married or go out with whom. Seemed to me like he had bigger bricks to throw and even if he hadn’t, I didn’t see why it was anybody’s business to decide what who could or couldn’t love anyone else.
> 
> Questioning the logic here meant getting cracked on the mouth and told not to talk back to your elders. Pointing out that a sermon had quoted St. Paul rather than Jesus and in the Book, Jesus had said no such thing? Meant getting cracked on the mouth and told that Uncle Jim was a pastor and spoke for God while you were an obstinate, disobedient, idiot child who had no idea what you’re talking about. Asking who died and gave Uncle Jim the right to speak for God in the first place because, in the Book, God sure didn’t seem to mind speaking for Himself? Meant getting cracked on the mouth, told to go pray until you got permission to stop, sent to bed without either lunch or dinner, and if you fell asleep before getting sent to bed, you’d get your arm twisted and a smack on the back of the head. Maybe three months before my case-worker moved me to Bryce’s family, the one foster cousin who I’d actually kinda liked got busted with guy-on-guy smut rags hidden under his mattress. He got sent to a so-called, “clinic” and when he came back, it seemed like he never stopped crying.
> 
> So, for Shiro and Ryou to be so open about Shiro being gay, talking about it in the kitchen where their Mom and Grandfather could hear everything? For Ryou to tease his brother affectionately, sing-songing about how Shiro wanted to be sitting in a tree with David like there was nothing wrong with it and everything was completely fine? I didn’t get it.
> 
> Because I was frowning, Ryou frowned back at me. “Do you have a problem or something?”
> 
> I glanced from Ryou across the table, with his chubby cheeks and furrowed brow, up at Shiro, still lanky from a recent growth spurt and currently blushing ever-so-slightly.
> 
> “You guys…?” I started, then took in the way Shiro’s hand had tensed up around his pencil. I didn’t understand at the time — up in Chicago some years later, he’d tell me while drunk about how much he’d liked me and been scared that I was going to buy into the same homophobic crap that he pretended not to hear in the locker room after lacrosse practice — but I got that how I responded here was going to be important. “You just… talk about that? Being gay? Like, you don’t get… I mean, you’re not afraid of it?”
> 
> Shiro relaxed, but still looked perplexed as he asked, “Why would we be afraid of me being gay? It isn’t news?”
> 
> “Not that, just? The talking about it?” I glanced around him to the stove, where Grandfather and Mrs. Shirogane stood, waiting for the teapot and whispering between each other. Settling back into my seat, I worried up at Shiro and he squeezed my shoulder. “You don’t care if your parents know? They’re not gonna do anything to you about it?”
> 
> “They’re the ones who taught Shiro what, ‘gay’ even means,” Ryou chimed in. When I wrinkled my nose at him, he shrugged. “Valentine’s Day — Kashi, was it second grade or third? Anyway, the day comes around closer and while we’re in the car, going to get cards and candy for class, Mom asks if we have anybody we want to be our Valentines. I didn’t really, so I just said the first girl in my class I could think of, but Kashi says—”
> 
> “Cameron Levesque.” Shiro blushed again, but this time, he chuckled and bashfully scratched at the back of his neck. “His family had just moved here from New Orleans, the summer before. He was funny, nice, totally cute even before you got to the accent? He went as Gambit from X-Men for Halloween and I almost bailed on being Luke Skywalker for Ryou’s Han Solo to be boy-Rogue instead.”
> 
> “You let Ryou be Han Solo?” That made only slightly more sense than how open they were about Shiro being gay.
> 
> Shiro shrugged. “It was the only way to get him to be someone other than Indiana Jones.”
> 
> “I like my Halloween costume,” Ryou deadpanned. “Anyway, in case he hasn’t made it clear? Kashi was totally in love with Cameron. So, hearing that, Mom asks a few questions and in the parking lot, she turns around to ask him if he thinks he might be gay. Which she has to explain, first, but when she does, he’s like, ‘Yeah, that sounds like me, girls are great but only as friends.’ They talk to Dad about it that night, and I got told to go to my room for that conversation—”
> 
> “Dad’s point was that if I’d have to be careful? Because he and Mom loved me no matter what because there’s nothing wrong with me being gay, but some people wouldn’t agree.” Still, Shiro gave me a small smile. “But we’re at home, so nothing to hide, right?”
> 
> “That hardly means that you ought to discuss such things with this boy when you are meant to be tutoring him.”
> 
> All three of us startled and whipped around to look at Grandfather Shirogane. Standing up straighter than a ruler, he folded his arms over his chest and frowned, first at Ryou, then at me, and finally at Shiro. He fixed his gaze on Shiro and pushed his glasses back up his nose as he said something in Japanese. I had no idea what any of it meant, but it made Mrs. Shirogane and Ryou glare at him. It made Shiro nod solemnly and square his shoulders, then turn back to my textbook to ask which parts of the current unit were giving me the most trouble.
> 
> A while later, after Grandfather and Mrs. Shirogane left the kitchen, I asked what he’d said, which made Shiro tense up and go pale. Stepping in for his brother, Ryou told me, “He said that Kashi might not be able to help being gay, and he might want to go into music instead of NASA, but that’s no reason for him to flaunt it and encourage you to throw your life away.”
> 
> “Wait, you make music? Like, writing your own songs?” When Shiro said that he’d tried his hand at it and his songs probably weren’t very good, my whole face strained around the excitement. “But that’s so cool, and they’ll get better if you keep writing, right? Are you gonna be a rockstar?”
> 
> “I don’t know, I don’t think that’s really for me? I mean, if it ever happened, then I wouldn’t argue with that kind of success but?” He shrugged and smiled like he was trying to thank me, small and like the expression was meant especially for me to see. “My music makes me happy? Even if my songs are terrible? And I want people to listen, yeah, but I don’t need to be, like, Journey or REO Speedwagon big, or George Michael big, or even big like The Killers or Fall Out Boy. If I just reach one person, like put out a song that gets them real deep? Whether it makes them smile, makes them cry, or just makes them feel like they aren’t alone? That’d be enough for me.”
> 
> Which was great and all, and I felt so lucky that Shiro was sharing this with me when most of his so-called friends from the lacrosse team didn’t know that he could sing at all outside of crooning, “Don’t Stop Believing,” “Careless Whisper,” or “Can’t Fight This Feeling Anymore” in the shower after practices. But I never really stopped holding this conversation against Shirogane Takashi the First. Me, I was used to foster siblings calling me a freak for enjoying monster movies and I was used to foster authority figures telling me that I should stop getting ideas above my station, checking history books and capital-L Literature out of the nearest library like I thought I could actually make something of myself.
> 
> But none of those people were family to me and I didn’t expect them to be kind. Grandfather Shirogane dismissing Shiro’s music like he did? Doing it when Shiro loved him so much, never felt like he, “deserved” to carry his Grandfather’s personal name, and twisted himself in knots about trying to live up to the man’s expectations, only to hear that something he loved was a waste of his life, in Grandfather Shirogane’s mind? That seemed like betrayal to me, on the same level as my Mom and Dad disappearing on me.
> 
> To be clear, Shiro’s Grandfather didn’t actually seem cruel, during most of the times we ever dealt with each other. A bit distant, but I’ve been accused of that too, so I couldn’t totally hold it against him. And he didn’t like Shiro’s music or talking about Shiro being gay, but according to Ryou, Grandfather Shirogane didn’t like much of anything. With that man, you couldn’t tell when he was pursing his lips in distaste or disapproval because those faces so closely resembled his default expression. But the way that Shiro put it, his namesake had had a rough life and gone through a lot of things that Shiro only vaguely knew about, never mind truly understanding them.
> 
> That was nice, I guessed, but I didn’t really consider that there might’ve been more to Shirogane Takashi the First than I knew until a couple weeks before he died.
> 
> Bryce had brought me over for one of my tutoring sessions with Shiro. As he headed for the door, he clapped Ryou on the back, much harder than necessary and without any warning, right after Ryou had taken a bite out of a large chocolate chip muffin. Although that didn’t make him choke exactly, Ryou still wound up coughing and hacking.
> 
> Laughing as if this were actually funny, Bryce said, “Just tryin’ to help you with your diet, Off-Brand Shiro. You’re never even gonna get a pity date if you stay the fat twin.”
> 
> “Dude, stow it,” Shiro snapped, setting the juice he’d gotten for us on the table and rolling his eyes at the latest version of a conversation they’d had way too many times. “If Ryou is hungry, shut up and let him eat. Being the cute, chubby twin is better than being a bully.”
> 
> “Also, out of the two of us, Bryce? I’m not the one who went to the Sadie Hawkins dance with my cousin because every other girl had too much self-respect to ask me.” Ryou smirked in a sugar-coated but cold, sardonic way that he normally didn’t — a true testament to Bryce’s ability to bring out the harshness that people usually kept hidden.
> 
> He was telling the truth, too. The high school’s Sadie Hawkins dance had happened two weeks earlier, and this was before Bryce started dating the girl he fucked after locking me out of the house while his parents were on a second honeymoon. Plenty of girls had wanted to have Shiro on their arm, so his friend Laura asked before any of them got the chance because he was gay, she was a lesbian, and this way, they could go to the dance just like the straight kids did without getting harassed about anything or anybody else suspecting they were gay. Ryou, on the other hand, had gotten asked by Michelle, one of his robotics teammates.
> 
> Bryce had gotten no invitation until he gave up and begged his cousin Deanna to be his date to a dance she had no interest in and tell everybody that she’d asked him. Deanna went to school in another district, so this actually wasn’t quite as stupid an idea as it sounds. But when you’re as much of a douchebag as Bryce was, you should expect some kind of comeuppance, and it came out at the dance that not only had he asked Deanna instead of the other way around like the Sadie Hawkins “rules” stipulated, but also that they were related.
> 
> Being reminded of this made him seethe and narrow his eyes at Ryou. “It was a pity date.”
> 
> “Shelle and I like each other,” Ryou countered. “I was her first choice. You weren’t anybody’s.”
> 
> “Yeah, out of pity.” Bryce scowled. “Do you really think a girl who looks like that is gonna go out with you for real?”
> 
> “Well, we’re going to the movies on Friday night, so… Yeah, I do, actually?”
> 
> At that, Bryce’s whole face flushed scarlet. Had Shiro not stepped between him and Ryou, Bryce might’ve thrown a punch. Instead, he got Shiro grabbing him by the shoulders and telling him, “Ryou and Michelle’s dates and their relationship are none of your business, man. And, you know, contrary to what you think? Most girls are not as shallow and stuck-up as you are.”
> 
> With that put out there, Shiro looked from Ryou to Bryce to me to Grandfather Shirogane, sitting at the table with his newspaper and his tea, and back to Ryou. Before the asshole could say anything else, Shiro took him by the elbow. Wearing a scowl like somebody who meant to let nothing and no one stand in his way, he steered Bryce toward the front door. When it slammed behind them, Ryou slouched and took another bite of his muffin. He and Grandfather Shirogane traded a few grumbling, cranky-sounding sentences in Japanese. I didn’t understand more than a few words of the language, so I figured that they wanted privacy and rather than listen in, I tried to look over the problems I was supposed to be working on. After a few more sentences, and Ryou nudged my shoulder and asked if I was doing okay because apparently, my working façade made me look sullen.
> 
> “Yeah, I’m fine. I just wish Bryce would fuck off sometimes, y’know?” At the sound of Grandfather Shirogane clearing his throat, I flushed pink and sat up straighter. I mumbled an apology, then clarified, “I’m sorry he’s such a jerk to you. Since he’s not gonna come apologize for himself.”
> 
> Ryou smiled. “It’s whatever. I am the fat twin—”
> 
> “You’re really not that fat—”
> 
> “Keith, it’s fine to call it what it is. ‘Fat’ isn’t a dirty word.” As if this made his point, he took an unconcerned bite of muffin. “Yeah, Kashi gets hung up about his abs, but that’s him. And he’s been weird about his butt since the Sadie’s dance? I don’t know why, something to do with that Sir Mix-A-Lot song, it happened while Shelle and I were making out? But that’s him, not me.”
> 
> With a shrug, Ryou told me, “People are always gonna think what they want, no matter what I do. I’m healthy, and I’m fine with how I look, so who cares if I could be an underwear model? I like science, that’s what I want to do. Not posing for Calvin Klein or strutting down a runway like a peacock, beating myself up to have a six-pack.”
> 
> “If you could donate a few pages from your book to your brother, Ryou, that would be ideal.” Grandfather Shirogane caught us by surprise again, and he didn’t lower his paper until he realized that we were staring. I don’t know about Ryou, but I was expecting his Grandfather to launch into a tirade about how Shiro needed to get serious and leave behind his musical ambitions to pursue something useful and important, like biochemistry or astrophysics.
> 
> Instead, he sighed and said, “Grandson, would you or would you not agree that Kashi gives too much thought to the opinions of people who do not deserve his consideration? I do not mean to insult your brother, Keith—” He looked at me over the top of his glasses. “—but from what I have seen of him, that young man has no discernible talents and no concept of respect for others.”
> 
> This was the first time I’d heard Grandfather Shirogane say my name, but waiting too long to respond would’ve made him impatient, so I said the first thing that I could think of: “Bryce isn’t my brother, sir. So… no offense taken?”
> 
> He arched an eyebrow in a way that reminded me so much of Shiro, it was almost scary. “Your foster brother, then.”
> 
> “If you wanna get technical. But if you wanna get truthful, he’s an asshole and I will so join you in insulting him, if you let me.”
> 
> This wasn’t entirely what I meant to say, but it was how I felt and unfortunately, my always debatable ability to self-filter had chosen right that second to fail me. Worse, it made Grandfather Shirogane fold his paper up and put it on the table, regarding me with a curiosity that sent a shock through my body like I’d tried to tongue-kiss a power outlet. Cussing in his presence for the second time in one encounter probably meant that I was in for something unpleasant — maybe not, “getting chased up a tree for three hours before Grandpa Bill finally called the dog off” unpleasant, but definitely not something fun. A quick glance at Ryou made me feel like he expected the same. Except, all that Grandfather Shirogane did was nod and name my take on this matter, “interesting.” With his leave to kindly explain what I meant, I tried to sit up straighter.
> 
> When I felt like I couldn’t manage that without sticking a steel rod up my spine, I said, “Yes, I’m with Bryce’s family, so he’s my foster brother. But he doesn’t act like someone I wanna call my brother. I mean, I can’t judge him for being rude ‘cause I can be pretty rude too, but he likes hurting people. He thinks it’s fun. He isn’t stupid, but he expects everyone to hand him whatever he wants because he showed up, and he never met hard work he couldn’t try to wriggle out of, and if it weren’t for Shiro, I’m pretty sure he’d be failing everything because he only ever does the bare. Minimum. And people keep letting him get away with it, I have no. Idea. Why. Because he’s terrible, he’s the worst, but—”
> 
> Cutting myself off before I could get into anything that Bryce or Grandpa Bill would come after me for sharing, I sighed. As much as I wanted to keep my posture right how Grandfather Shirogane liked it, I let myself slouch as I concluded, “With all due respect, sir? I like Shiro and I’m glad he’s friends with Bryce because that’s how I met him and I’m selfish. But I don’t get why Shiro calls Bryce his friend, and Shiro deserves so. Much. **Better**.”
> 
> When he asked if I was finished, I nodded and this time, when he pursed his lips, it seemed pensive, more than anything else. While he mulled over what I’d said, I looked to Ryou again, and all he could do was shrug as if asking what I expected him to say because he felt just as dumbfounded as I did. I’ll never know how Grandfather Shirogane wanted to answer my little tirade, though. Before he could so much as start, the front door opened and slammed shut again. We could all hear Shiro groaning, but as he reentered the kitchen, he wore a tight smile that wanted us to think it was legit instead of looking like he’d attached it with Dollar Store staples. It only faltered as he dragged his eyes over the three of us again. Aside from his Grandfather having put the paper down, I didn’t think there was much about the scene that should’ve given Shiro pause like this, but he held up anyway.
> 
> Finally, he sighed and let his shoulders droop. “Okay, what did I miss?”
> 
> “Nothing of particular importance, Kashi,” Grandfather Shirogane told him easily, while Ryou and I were busy forgetting how to use our mouths and vocal cords to make words happen. “Keith and I were finally getting better acquainted—”
> 
> Shiro sighed, loudly enough to give his Grandfather pause and letting an uncharacteristic whine creep into his voice. Although he didn’t say it out loud, even I could get the subtext in the twisted up, half-pouting frown he shot the old man. Deep respect for family ties and his namesake was the only thing keeping Shiro from saying, “Oh God, Grandfather, what the Hell kind of social tortures did you subject Keith to?”
> 
> Grandfather Shirogane arched his eyebrow again. When Shiro had apologized and corrected his posture, the old man said, “If you would allow me to finish, Kashi, then I would inform you that had you not made such a dramatic entrance? I would have told this young man that I am very grateful to have my grandson call him a friend. You would do well to find  more friends like Keith, if my opinion on such things matters to you in the slightest.”
> 
> While Grandfather Shirogane picked up where he’d left off in his newspaper, Shiro looked to me and Ryou for some kind of explanation but didn’t find any. I, at least, didn’t have any to offer because even now, I’m not entirely sure what happened in that encounter or why. I got an explanation eventually, but it didn’t come from Shiro’s Grandfather and it’s not like I can ask the man himself anymore, so that’s the best I’ve got.

*** * ***

Fortunately for Keith, Shiro seems reassured by getting told that Keith is fine, albeit tired and still fighting with his essay about getting it written. Flopping onto his back, Keith props his head and neck up on Allura’s stuffed pillow shaped like some relatively newfangled Pokémon called a Sylveon. Not that this means as much to Keith as it would have if he’d ever been _allowed_ to play a Pokémon game, but whatever a Sylveon is, it’s pink and white with dangling little doodads on its ears like hair ribbons, where it has bits of blue. It’s cute and totally Allura’s taste, and for the time being, it makes lying on the floor more comfortable while going back and forth with Shiro about why Keith thinks he’s having trouble with the essay.

_“It’s like I said: mostly, I don’t want to talk about my life with these people. Spelling it out for my prof and JUST my prof is a fucking stretch.”_

_“You still have to turn something in. Is there anything that might be easier for you to write about?”_

_“We went over this the other day.”_ But once again, Shiro’s ellipses do the flickering in and out thing, so Keith sends him another one and says, _“I can’t give Ryner what she wants AND write what would be easier for me. Something’s gotta give. Since I’m the student, it has to be me.”_

Shiro’s ellipses disappear and when his text comes up it just says, _“Wait, like the Dr. Ryner who wrote Greening Deep? High cheekbones, big eyes, looks kinda like a distinguished former hippie in her authorial headshot?”_

_“Yeah, sounds about right. Why?”_ Because he doesn’t sigh, Keith lets himself tap out, _“Please don’t tell me you like her book”_

_“I haven’t gotten around to it yet actually but she’s Pidge’s advisor.”_ Before Keith can even process that, Shiro adds, _“Pidge’s recommendation was why I even put Ryner’s book on my list. She gushed about it in a way she usually saves for computer science or the latest cool thing news from NASA”_

Keith rolls his eyes and glares at the constellations painted on Allura’s ceiling. If the people in his life are going to all turn out to know each other within six degrees of separation, then at least somebody could find a way to be related to Dolly Parton. That way, Keith could get a meeting with the woman who invented music, as far as he’s concerned. Knocking his head against the Sylveon doesn’t hurt, but it lets out steam, Keith guesses. So, he does it a few more times before typing back, _“I don’t suppose this means you have any insight on what I can do in this essay to keep her from failing me? Even if it’s vague or secondhand? Please?”_

Shiro takes a moment to think, which is fair enough, and Keith needs a moment to think about the reply when it comes in, himself: _“According to Pidge (but keep in mind, this is based on the special ‘giving you an advisor now’ mentoring class she took with Ryner), the best thing to do is be yourself and write what’s in your heart. Fwiw, it was hard for Pidge, too. She used to bring more musical and technical expertise to our songwriting process than lyrics. But she got it and calls it one of the most rewarding things she’s learned at school”_

_“Well at least somebody actually got matched with an advisor they can work with. Lucky Pidge.”_

Keith would be content to let that stand, but Shiro just has to ask what he means, so Keith taps out, _“I don’t know how many people on campus actually keep the advisors they get through that whole process. But when I had my version of that class, I got paired with a professor I like well enough? And it was an honor to be considered for one of his advisee positions, I guess, but Dr. Thace is a philosopher more than a historian. Plus, sometimes, it felt like he respected my ideas but wasn’t listening to my input about my academic track and what I wanted to be doing. So I fought to get Kolivan to take me on instead”_

In response to that novel, Shiro shoots back, _“Play along and try something with me. What drew you to Kolivan? Aside from his discipline”_

_“He’s the head of the history department and he almost never takes on advisees. But anticipating your objection, I know that’s not what you’re asking me and I’m thinking, okay? I just didn’t want you to think I was ignoring you.”_ —Not that it clears up what the Hell Shiro thinks his game is, but maybe this will get Keith somewhere on the essay, and if nothing else, Keith owes Shiro the patience to indulge him when he’s trying to help.

_“I read three of Kolivan’s books before even taking a class with him. One was on gender politics and sexuality during the French Revolution and the Reign of Terror, I found it at the library when we were living in Chicago. You brought the other two home for me.”_ Keith’s not done yet, but he sends it off as is so he can clear up his text-entry box and hopefully, his head.

_“I’m guessing you liked them?”_ Shiro sends back before Keith’s gotten his thoughts together.

_“Yeah. You know what I like.”_ Agreeing with Shiro is easy enough, especially since this statement has the benefit of being true.

But it’s also not entirely the point: _“The second one of his books I read was about how the Cold War affected the territory formerly known as Daibazaal, and how it got divided up after the fall of the Soviet Union. It’s thicker and a little less straightforward than the French Revolution book but it has more going on in it. There’s Communism vs. capitalism, rebellion and revolution, the tug of war between US imperialism and Soviet conquest, colonialism (in more ways than one since Daibazaal had colonies in Olkarion, Arus, and Drule), diaspora (again, the Galra people caused diasporas as well as being subjected to one, thanks to the USSR), religious struggles, and he put so much work into showing the bigger-picture stuff, all the intricate moving pieces that made it up, and how this affected normal people.”_

Which is probably more than long enough, so Keith breaks off into a new text to add, _“Plus, he had a whole chapter about gender and sexuality and life for LGBTQ people in Cold War Daibazaal. I guess a ton of reviewers hated it? Or they felt like it was out-of-place and didn’t add anything to the book overall. My problem with it was that he didn’t put in more, but that was his editor’s call and Kolivan had to fight him to keep what little he had. When I first read the book in Chicago, I didn’t get why it was there, I just thought the chapter was neat and I wanted more. But he’s been expanding it into a whole new monograph and if I get his TA position, I could get to see some of it in advance.”_

Before Keith can even get going on the rest, Shiro sends him, _“Wait, really?”_

_“He hasn’t said so to my face or anything, but the job description mentioned that he might have his TA do some line-edits or make sure his citations are all in order.”_

_“That sounds kind of tedious. Like busywork?”_

Rolling his eyes, Keith throws back, _“God, totally. But at least I’d get to read his monograph early.”_

For a moment, he sees Shiro’s ellipses pop up again, but they disappear pretty quickly. Hopefully, this means Shiro’s sitting on his response for now. _“Anyway, with the third book, Building Mindscapes, I kinda figured out why he insisted on keeping that chapter and put such a passive-aggressive burn at his editor in the second’s acknowledgments. But just so we’re clear? As far as anybody else but you and Kolivan is concerned, the second book I read of his is my favorite of the three.”_

At least Shiro doesn’t keep Keith waiting long before he sends back, _“My lips are sealed. To yours, ideally”_ and the heart-bearing kissy-face emoji. He follows that up with, _“But seriously, I won’t tell anybody, I promise. ❤️”_

With that reassurance, Keith feels a little less ill-at-ease about texting Shiro, _“So Kolivan’s third book (that I’ve read; he’s published six) isn’t exactly a history? Like, that’s there too, but he gets more interdisciplinary, brings in all these different influences. It’s like Delany in Times Square Red, Times Square Blue? Mixing different approaches to history with memoir and sociopolitical debate. It’s hard to even say what the book’s about because there’s so much that any summary ends up leaving out. But he deals with Galra people in the US during the 20th century, focusing on LGBTQ Galra people. Which got personal for him, since he’s gay and Galra. He dedicated it to his husband for their tenth anniversary.”_

While Keith’s trying to figure out where to go next, Shiro throws him a bone: _“This is very informative, but did you really fight to get Kolivan to take you on solely out of respect for his academic work? Or is there something else that’s going on?”_

_“I mean, his work is brilliant but his husband and Thace do great work too and neither of them is my advisor.”_

Which doesn’t answer Shiro’s question as directly as he probably wants, so Keith sucks it up and thumps his head against Sylveon again, typing out, _“Meeting him, he was nothing like I expected. The way he writes reminded me more of you. But like, older and with different losses in his life. In retrospect, I think there was a lot of projection based on similarities that were more surface-level. One of the biggest reasons I liked the comparison was how, in the book, he says he first realized he was falling for his now-husband when Antok surprise kissed him while, ‘Last Christmas’ was playing at their favorite bar.”_

Admitting that makes Keith knock his head back a few more times and kick his legs at absolutely nothing, as though somehow, flailing his limbs like this will clear his system of whatever’s so broken in him to make him act like this — but by the time he’s settled, Shiro’s replied, _“And now we’re getting somewhere. But Kolivan doesn’t remind you of me anymore?”_

_“Definitely not. You’re both tall, creative, smart, and dedicated. But that’s about it for similarities.”_

And Keith knows better than to expect that this will be enough, so he goes on: _“I didn’t mind him not being like you. But I minded the way he didn’t seem to think much of me. Said he didn’t take on advisees anymore since making department head and no one had met his standards yet but it was like he wasn’t giving me a chance. Every time I meet with him, he won’t fucking tell me what those standards were. Thace doesn’t want to let me go but tells me Kolivan respects nerve, tenacity, initiative, and grace under pressure. Antok offers to take me on but also says his man won’t mentor anyone who, ‘can’t prove their mettle’ like that’s not vague as shit and massively unhelpful. He tells me we’ll meet again soon like he’s expecting me to fail.”_

_“So how’d you finally win him over? ❤️”_ Shiro texts quickly, like he knows Keith is tugging at his hair with half a mind to pull it clean out of his fucking skull.

_“I told him I quit. Snapped that I’d done everything he put in front of me, done everything I could think of to impress him, and if he didn’t want to give me any consideration, then I wasn’t going to kill myself or pretend to be someone I’m not for his approval because I didn’t need it. He asked why I’d wanted his mentorship in the first place if I was going to give up before getting it. And I hadn’t exactly slept that well so next thing I know, I’m telling him how much I loved his books, and he wasn’t why I decided to come here for school but how could I not even try to work with someone whose work had changed my life”_ — Keith’s thumb strays from the path and hits on send before he’s done and groans loudly, kicking at the rug.

But at least Shiro hasn’t said anything new by the time Keith gets out, _“I told him I’d reread Building Mindscapes so many times after you got taken away (I wasn’t specific, I just said I’d lost someone important to me) because that book, The Mountain Goats, and Dolly were the only things that made me feel less alone and like it mattered at all if I kept going, but if Kolivan didn’t care enough to give me a chance, then fine because at least Thace pretended to give a fuck about what I wanted to do even if he vetoed practically everything in the end.”_

Seeing the ellipses gives Keith pause, and he gives Shiro enough time to ask, _“What about the book did affected you so deeply? Or did that not come up?”_

_“It came up. I actually name-dropped that one, so he asked the same thing as you just now.”_ Keith needs a moment before he can explain anything else, but Shiro’s ellipses don’t come back, so he probably figures as much.

Keith’s hands feel like they might never stop trembling, but he manages to send Shiro, _“I told him how he got me with the opening section about his mother and traditional Galran holidays. And how the parts about his father’s dissatisfaction with him hit below the belt. I told him how I loved the bit about his and Antok’s proposal, how they’d been together so long already and he didn’t believe Antok actually wanted to marry him, and it made me cry like no other book but Frankenstein, Summer Will Show, and Dry. He’s looking at me like I’m crazy but I tell him how I couldn’t believe that someone who wrote so beautifully could be such a closed-off asshole but maybe I should’ve guessed when he flat-out says in the book that he took three weeks to give Antok any answer and he only did because Antok called him out.”_

Which isn’t where Keith wanted to stop, but then again, this isn’t where he wanted his and Shiro’s conversation to go, and since it has, Keith needs to remember how to breathe.

He doesn’t find it in him to type out anything until Shiro sends, _“That worked? It won him over to Team Keith, I mean?”_

_“There was a moment where I thought he might kill me by glaring so hard I had a heart attack, but yeah. He nodded and signed the form and told me to get it across campus before the registrar’s office closed.”_

Keith’s watching the ellipses pop in and out, but he can’t focus on them. A familiar giggle cuts through everything else that he’s feeling and everything else that’s going on, and shocks Keith into sitting up. Fumbling, he drops his phone and that just makes Allura smile. She’s perching back by her headboard, leaning toward Shay but watching Keith. Both of them are fixated on him, really, but at least they don’t make him feel like he’s an attraction in some freak show or, even worse, a zoo.

For all he should almost definitely have more to say for himself — or something more to ask, or any kind of words right now, even if they aren’t The Right Ones or even close — Keith finds himself slouching and glowering at his best friend and hoping that somehow, she manages to intuit what he’s thinking on her own. Which he knows is unfair, and that’s probably why all Allura does is tilt her head ever-so-slightly to Keith’s left, blinking at him as if he’s a particularly curious piece of art. Maybe one that doesn’t look like it belongs in some hypothetical gallery because it’s too grungy or too experimental or the artist clearly had no sense of proportion when it came to drawing their model’s cock. _Well, genetics had a realistic sense of proportion for **me** , but how do people **not** stare at those pieces that have dicks the size of tree trunks—_

Shaking his head and mussing his hands through his hair, Keith sighs and finally manages to say, “How long have you been sitting there, Princess?”

“Since what Shay said was the _second_ round, I think, of you hitting your head against a pillow?” Allura shrugs, but there’s an edge creeping into her voice that can’t decide whether it wants to be suspicious or more generally curious. “Whatever you were doing, it was rather like watching performance art. In my experience, though, most performance artists’ work is less interesting but also somewhat easier to interpret than your latest movement piece, unless said artists are _particularly_ out of their minds on… Well, whatever their drugs of choice may be.”

“Next time, I’ll make an artist’s statement. ‘Sleep deficiency is one Hell of a drug but I totally know what I’m doing, thanks for your understanding. Question: How many surrealists does it take to change a lightbulb? Answer: Fish.’” Getting settled again, he curls up his legs but, rather than hide in them, he lets them droop open in the position that Allura would call _manspreading_ if Keith ever did it on the bus. He rests some of his weight on his palms and gives her a smile. No doubt, it’s wan and more than somewhat unconvincing, but he’s making an effort to put her mind at ease, which should count for something, right?

Unless this is yet another thing that Keith may be wrong about, like other people’s crying habits and what might have or might have not been on Shiro’s mind when he wrote, “When You’re Away.” ( _Allegedly_ , Keith can’t help thinking. _According to **Lance** , who probably still hates me and not without good reason. But who also has no reason to lie, especially not when him lying could potentially end up with Shiro getting hurt—_)

Keith curls one hand up into a fist and hopes that Allura can’t see it around his hip. At least, he hopes she can’t make out how he’s digging his nails at his palm. Noticing that could be other than comforting for her, which could very well turn into bad news for the both of them. But the pain helps Keith force himself to breathe in deeply, and one he’s had a few rounds of that and starts feeling relatively steady, he sighs. He flattens out his palm again and lets himself twist and untwist his fingers through the rug. Maybe the shag’s texture isn’t quite as nice on his skin as Allura’s hair or as fun to play with as Shiro’s, but it’s still so soft that his nerves can’t help loosening their hold on him a little. This does have a potential downside, but it’s just that Keith _sighs_ and allows himself to run at the carpet a bit more intently, feeling more and more of the tension melt right out of him as he slides his palm across the synthetic pink fur.

“Are you alright?” Allura asks before Keith can remind himself that conversations are not one-sided and kick his brain until it remembers how to use words like an actual functioning human person. She isn’t _frowning_ , not exactly, but her face has gone tight with concern, and instead of looking Keith in the eye, she’s looking at his hand.

Even non-verbally, Keith’s not sure how to respond to that. Which makes his own brow furrow up to match Allura’s until it feels like his whole face is scrunching in on itself. Dimly, he’s concerned, and he doesn’t help himself feel better when all that he manages is a shrug and a noncommittal, throaty noise. With a sympathetic sigh, Allura takes the hairbrush and a ziploc bag of elastics off her bedside table. She says nothing as she joins him on the floor.

They’ve done this plenty of times before, and as Keith combs his fingers and the brush through her hair, he’s so grateful that Allura not only gets his need to do this sometimes but also enjoys having her hair played with enough that she doesn’t feel like he’s imposing on her when he gets like this. Yeah, she might not understand in the same way as someone else who’s on the spectrum, but Allura has her own hang-ups — the way she alphabetizes her walk-in closet, the way she can’t stand letting certain foods touch each other, the way she organizes her bookshelves that she can’t explain but promises makes sense — and she’s never made Keith feel _weird_ or _sick_ or _broken_ for his thing about textures. After a while, he can tell that he’s calming down; he’s starting to think about what kinds of braids they might want to do tonight.

But before he lets himself go on, he wraps his arms around her shoulders and puts his chin on her shoulder. “Thanks, Princess,” he says. Glancing up at the bed, he adds, “And thanks for… y’know, letting us have this, Shay?”

“It helps you both and I trust you two,” Shay says with a shrug, as though her meaning is perfectly clear. True, it’s not as opaque as it could be, but Shay smiles, which doesn’t let Keith dwell too much on reading between any lines. “Anyway, I think it’s sweet.”

“You ought to know,” Allura says, a smile audible in her voice. “Of the present company, there’s no one quite as sweet as you.”

“I know I’m not,” Keith mumbles into the crook of Allura’s neck, giving her another squeeze before he lets go and shifts around to her side. As he toys with a section of hair up by her temple, he says, “At least you _can_ be sweet, Princess. And sometimes sour, or sometimes kind of a mix of things, and sometimes you have a kick that most people don’t see coming because they underestimate you… Total package, but it’s on your terms more than anybody else’s… ’s part of your charm.”

“Ah, yes, he _flatters_ me so but insists that he simply _cannot **ever**_ be sweet… Am I wrong in this, Shay?” She giggles fondly, then messes up his apportioning by turning her head so she can give him a small smile. “But my question from before still stands, darling. Are you alright?”

Keith shrugs, trying to split up Allura’s locks so he can weave them together again. “Kind of a mess, but that’s not news? Right now… A mix of things, but that’s not news, either? Low-grade romantically frustrated. Boys are stupid, and I include myself in that. Questioning my decision to write about Shiro for Ryner’s essay. Kinda wondering why I didn’t actually read her course description during registration—”

“Why would you sign up for it without reading that?”

“Hey, Kolivan already called me out on that. Right before we talked about his open TA position, which was sort of funny timing, to me, but…” Huffing more heavily than he means to, Keith tucks the hair he wanted to braid behind Allura’s ear instead. “Dropping’s out of the question at this point, and I don’t want to let Ryner win. Even if it’s… possibly not actually a contest?”

“I know what you mean.” Taking his cue, Allura adjusts her own position, shuffling around to lean against the foot of her bed. As much as Keith would _like_ to keep playing with her hair, he can’t do that _and_ talk to her. Some other night, maybe, but not right now. Pouting slightly, Allura adds, “I think I’ve come to realize that Hira and I are not in any _real_ competition with each other. Any that we perceive is something that we have invented for ourselves. And yet…”

Allura’s groan is higher-pitched than anyone else’s that Keith has ever heard and she briefly straightens up her back. If they were on their feet, she would probably be stomping. “At this point, backing down would let Hira feel like she’s beaten me, and I do not _want_ to give her that satisfaction. Especially not when her opinions are largely _horrifying_.”

“Maybe it’s like me winning over Kolivan?” Keith says before giving himself time to think about what he means. Letting his mouth do what it will, he talks out his thoughts for her, “I mean, obviously there are _several_ differences? And I don’t think Hira will _ever_ come around about you? All her responses that you’ve let me read, even the ones that aren’t directed at you, they’re just… She’s very, ‘I’m smart, you’re dumb. I’m right, you’re wrong, and there’s nothing you can do about it’? Like Danny DeVito and the Trunchbull in the movie version of _Matilda_?”

“That is an _incredibly_ polite understatement,” Allura says. “Has Kolivan been tutoring you in diplomacy?”

“Why would he? His bedside manner isn’t exactly… Oh.” Keith slouches, realizing that this was meant to be a joke. But whatever, it’s not the first one that he’s missed before. Nudging some of his fringe back off his forehead, he tells Allura, “All I mean is that Kolivan didn’t think I had _any_ potential for self-discipline ’til I backed down from chasing after him? So, all the effort I was putting into trying to win him over… It wasn’t _pointless_? It helped make him take an interest in me, but the real victory was knowing when to stop and say, ‘Enough is enough’? Maybe backing down from everything with Hira…”

He shrugs, but doesn’t bother trying to smile when this is so serious for Allura. “I’m not saying it’ll be easy? It wouldn’t be for me. But I don’t think Hira is going to stop either. She doesn’t have a reason to _want_ to stop. All she ever does is make you furious and you’ve got better things to do. Why not… I dunno?” Somewhere, Keith’s phone buzzes, but he doesn’t let himself get that distracted by the stupid thing’s questionable sense of timing: “If you backed down and tried not taking her bait, maybe she could just stew in all her frothing, pathetic misery? Let her be pissed off that you have too much self-respect to date her and go do something that actually makes you happy.”

Allura considers this for a moment. “Pettiness as motivation for maturity…” She smirks playfully. “That’s _brilliant_.”

“I have my moments.” Keith doesn’t manage a full smile, but right now, he doesn’t feel like he needs to.

Unfortunately, his phone buzzes again, and Allura arches her eyebrow at it. “You have texts.”

“Yeah, it’s Shiro,” Keith tells her. As he tries nudging his hair off his face again, Allura blinks at him as if she’s asking why he’s still talking to her instead of picking it up. Her brow is trying so fucking hard to escape her forehead, it makes Keith gulp and rush to explain, “Look, I’m not _ignoring_ him, okay? But we’ve been texting on and off all night, and like? If he were somebody else, maybe I’d be worried that he’d get jealous. But Shiro _knows_ I don’t have the best history or skills with, y’know, making friends? Plus, all he knows is that you exist and we used to date, and being my friend means he already likes you…”

Trailing off, he shrugs, but Allura remains… not _un_ impressed with him? But pursing her lips like she can’t tell if she wants to do that or pout, making one of her _pensive but conflicted_ faces that, in Keith’s experience, usually accompany one of her more awesome-sounding but unrealistic ideas for how to handle any given situation. Something like trying to organize a flash-mob dance in protest of Dean Zarkon’s terrible choice in invited speakers, rather than something more straightforward. But before Keith can get himself ready for something outlandish, his phone buzzes again and Allura nods toward it.

The three messages from Shiro go: _“See, that’s the kind of openness I think Ryner’s looking for (but Pidge would know better than me).”_

_“At the risk of being cliche? Sometimes, you just have to put everything out there and que sera, sera. No, it’s not easy, but think about the parts you liked most in Building Mindscapes. The parts that stuck with you most. Think about Rick and Ilsa. You’re no stranger to taking risks, Keith. It sucks to put yourself out there like this assignment wants you to, but try to have faith that somebody thinks it matters as much as Shay’s protest and will want to read what you write.”_

_“If it helps, I’ll always read anything you want to show me. ❤️”_

Responding to that would be polite. But Keith’s face is burning so hot as he sets his phone down again, and Allura’s looking at him like she can’t decide whether to be glib so Keith can take his mind off of everything or serious because something here probably needs dealing with, and if she asked for guidance, Keith wouldn’t know what to tell her, either. When she prods him to the tune of, _“What were you two talking about?”_ , so many options present themselves and Keith grabs at the first one that doesn’t involve his essay:

“About Monday. Making plans. Seeing each other, like? Possibly also kissing, since he offered me a birthday kiss and everything, but…”

A deep breath and a shrug, but he doesn’t try to smile. Even if Allura weren’t abruptly slouching, he wouldn’t have tried it. “Oh, shit, Princess, what did I do? What’s wrong? I thought you weren’t coming back ’til Monday night?”

“We weren’t supposed to,” Allura says with a sigh. “I wanted to tell you so it wouldn’t be an awful surprise, but… My Mother is having some Olkari poet friends stay with her next week. She asked if we wouldn’t mind leaving on Sunday night or early Monday morning so she could get her place ready for them… I thought that we might get dinner like always, I didn’t even _consider_ about you and Shiro possibly making other arrangements…”

“Our plans aren’t set in stone or anything?” Keith offers, scrambling over to sit at her side. “All we agreed on was that we wanted to see each other, and probably make out, and that consent is important? I even told him that I usually have plans with you—”

“So, he wouldn’t mind joining us, do you think?”

Keith’s words skid to a halt, stumbling out of his mouth in a mess of half-drunk-sounding syllables (and even that’s a pretty generous term for them). Not that something like this is _entirely_ unlike Allura, but she cut in over of his attempted explanation and with something that Keith feels like he should have seen coming. Leaning back against the bed and blinking at Allura’s starry-eyed and bushy-tailed eagerness, he is so glad that he can’t see Shay right now. Even with the minor differences in situation and specific context, Keith _cannot_ deal with an, _“I told you so”_ right now, no matter how much he deserves it. Worse, he can tell from the way Allura’s clasping her hands together: she is seriously restraining herself right now, holding back how much she wants to make this request of her best friend, probably for fear of somehow overwhelming him.

“We didn’t… Do you really _want_ him to join us?” Keith tries, because it’s non-definitive and thus can be negotiated. Allura’s eyes go wider, in a mix of hopefulness and disbelief, and Keith drags his hand back through his hair more gently than usual. “I’m not being funny, Princess. I mean, I could be okay with him coming, and Shay’s gonna be there anyway—”

“I’m in favor of inviting him!” Shay pipes up, and in a flash, she flops back to the end of the mattress. “It’ll feel less like a date-plus-Keith if there are four of us. Not that hanging out _usually_ feels like that, but…”

“Birthday dinner is special, I got it.” Keith doesn’t mean to be short with her, but he wasn’t expecting this to happen, even though she warned him. Once he mumbles an apology that Shay deems unnecessary, his mouth decides to yank the reins away and spit out for him: “Allura, I’m serious. Shiro is really important to me, and so are you. I think you two _could_ get along, but… I don’t know what I’d do if you _didn’t_? And okay, in fairness? He gets along with almost everybody—”

“I distinctly recall you telling me that he could have tongue-kissed another young man at a pulpit and still charmed an entire congregation of hardline homophobes?” Despite her upward inflection, Allura is not asking a question. The vorpal glint in her eyes says everything: she’s daring him to either admit that he might have exaggerated or else find some explanation for himself.

“Well, he never _literally tried_ that, but it wouldn’t have surprised me…” Still, Keith’s stalling, and it makes his stomach jerk like they’re slipping off the first hill of a rollercoaster. “My point is: he’s been through a lot. _You’ve_ been through a lot—”

“So have _you_ ,” Allura points out, and pouts when Keith shakes his head.

“Not the important part.” Deep breath, and a sigh that makes him feel no less vulnerable, but Keith has to get this done with: “I can prep him about some of the things that you won’t like, but? I’m still trying to learn my way around what some of his new potential triggers are, and which of the old ones have gotten worse or might not be so bad anymore. He wants to meet you sometime, but a dinner is kinda like… It’s not a _bad_ idea, necessarily, but there are kinda… I mean, it could work and it’s pretty, I don’t…?”

_Fuck, how do I say this without outing his diagnoses for him? Fuck, shit, dammit — God, Allura, do you **have** to look at me like that? I know it isn’t pity when you’re doing it but come on—_

“What if we call and ask him about it?” Keith’s mouth blurts out for him.

In a rush of delighted squealing, Allura pounces Keith and flings her arms around his shoulders. Although her string of, _“Yes, yes, thank you, thank you, thank you!”_ s is hardly incomprehensible, Keith still feels like he isn’t catching all of it. He hugs her back, rubbing gentle circles between her shoulder-blades, until Allura decides to pull away and get Keith’s phone for him. Granted, he has to check with Shiro first — _“Hey, do you have time for a call before you guys practice? Allura and I wanted to ask you something about Monday night”_ — but Shiro’s, _“Of course, always ❤️”_ comes in so quickly, he might actually have been waiting by the phone for Keith’s response. God, Keith hopes he wasn’t. Derailing Shiro’s life without even thinking would be such a douchebag move.

Either way, Shiro picks up on the first ring and tells Keith, “Come on, put me on speaker!” like a little kid who can’t wait to meet Santa Claus.

Keith sets his phone on the mattress, between Shay’s elbows. Once he’s made sure everybody can hear everybody else, he sighs and seriously wishes that he had a script to work from. “Okay, I’ve never been great at introductions or whatever… I think you might know Shay already, through Hunk? So, Princess, you wanna say, ‘Hi’ to Shiro?”

“Allura Orfaliegne,” she says, and Keith tries not to cringe because he recognizes that tight-voiced, overly rehearsed tone that she’s slipping into. “Of the _former_ House of Raimon—”

“You don’t have to do the full official thing, Princess,” Keith tells her, tucking her hair back behind her ear. “This is casual. I don’t think Shiro’s up on the whole history of what happened to Altea anyway—”

“I’m not,” he pipes up. “But wait, Keith, you didn’t tell me she was an actual _princess_ —”

“Technically, I’m _not_ a princess,” Allura says primly. “My family _was_ nobility, and often sat on the Altean throne when there _was_ an Altean throne. But that history lesson…” She sighs heavily, with an ever-so-slight hint of a pleading whine, and looks to Keith for help.

“It’s a godawful, depressing mess and talking about it makes Allura sad for incredibly understandable reasons.” It’s not the best explanation he could’ve come up with, but by way of apology, he squeezes Allura’s hand and tries to keep the conversation moving: “I just call her, ‘Princess’ because that’s how I remembered her before finally learning her name. Anyway, Shiro, be polite. Say, ‘hi’ to Allura.”

“Hi to Allura,” Shiro parrots, snickering at his own joke. Fortunately, Allura laughs as well, while Shay arches an eyebrow at Keith like, _Well, these are the nerds we’ve fallen in love with_. So, everybody gets to win, and Shiro doesn’t take long before saying, “Shirogane Takashi — or flip them around for the American version. But, please, it’s Shiro. Currently of Galaxy Garrison but originally of Corpus Christi… I feel like the band is closer to a noble family than my hometown is, though.”

“A pleasure to… _somewhat_ meet you, Shiro.” Allura smiles, leaning against the foot of the bed so she can be closer to the phone. “I can hear what Keith meant about your voice. Lovely, but I very much doubt that you could sing like Dolly Parton.”

“Gosh, no, her range is way off from mine. That is… certainly a very Keith way to put it, though, yeah?” Shiro chuckles and Keith’s glad that he can currently roll his eyes without fear of hurting Shiro’s feelings. Contrary to Shiro’s old beloved joke, Keith doesn’t think that he judges _all_ music based on how much it resembles or reminds him of Dolly Parton. “But it’s nice to kinda sorta meet you too, Allura. Keith… has told me that you exist, you two used to date, and that he’s fond of you in a way most people don’t get to see from him.”

“Well, he has told me rather a bit more than that about _you_ ,” Allura almost-drawls, “but it still has not been _much_. He can be quite reticent when something is important to him, can’t he? More so than he normally is.”

“I mean, the other option is when you get him spouting off like Vesuvius…”

Shiro makes a _whoosh_ ing noise that’s meant to indicate an explosion, Keith guesses. Both of them laugh at this while Shay gives up a giggle, but Keith’s left sitting quietly, with absolutely no clue what the joke is. Sure, he gets the reference to Mount Vesuvius destroying Pompeii and Herculaneum. Based on how abnormally effusive he’s been in the past week, and how he can get once he’s comfortable enough with someone or gets egged on in the proper way, he knows he deserves this comparison. But why the Hell is it meant to be _funny_?

Turning his eyes up to Shay earns Keith no explanation, simply a shrug and an expression like, _What do you want **me** to do about it? Of the two of us, I’m not the one who can change anything about **your** behaviors_ — which is fair enough, Keith guesses. Even if this were Shay’s problem, it’s not as though she can reach into Keith’s head and make him a less difficult person to deal with.

It wouldn’t be worth it, anyway. Even if she _could_ do that, he might still find a way to undo all her efforts.

“ _Anyway_!” Keith interjects, over-top of Shiro starting a sentence with _This one time, in Chicago_. Whatever memory he wanted to bring up, it likely wasn’t awful, but there’s only so much that Keith can take in one week and he is not ready for Shiro and Allura to compare in-depth notes about all his idiosyncrasies.

Having them fall into awkward silence is only marginally better, and since he’s the one who started it, Keith says, “So, Allura and I wanted to ask… She and Shay are going to be back before Monday night after all, so? How would you feel about…” _Don’t call it a double-date. Is it even a double-date? What are the parameters for defining_ — “About the four of us getting dinner together, maybe?”

“What?” Shiro says, and Keith’s heart hits his stomach. But it snaps back into place as Shiro adds on, “Like a double-date?”

“Yes, exactly! The most perfect of birthday presents!” Allura pipes up, positively beaming. Her face is so bright, it might actually be capable of burning someone’s retinas, but it’s better than looking up at Shay and having to swallow a silent, _I told you so_ , no matter how well-deserved it is. Bouncing and clasping her hands together, Allura tells Shiro, “We hadn’t even gotten around to discussing the potential options, if you have any ideas? Keith and I got rather distracted by the question of whether or not to invite you—”

“Which was only about looking out for you,” Keith rushes to add, before Shiro can possibly get any self-effacing ideas. “Because I… didn’t know how you might be about dinner or not? Especially with, y’know, a total stranger? Or Allura’s a stranger to _you_ —”

“Unfortunately, Keith has been somewhat vague about what any of that that _means_ , in a more practical—”

“Because it _isn’t my business_ to tell you or not, Princess. It’s _Shiro’s_ —”

“Yes, but how can I better tailor my suggestions if I don’t know what—”

“It’s okay,” Shiro chimes in. “I can explain more clearly for you—”

“Shiro, you _don’t_ have to do that—”

“Hey, it’s _my_ thing to disclose or not, right?” Keith can’t argue with that, but now, he wishes that he could see Shiro’s face. That tight, straining-but-not-too-horribly tone in his voice could mean too many things to be a useful clue on its own. “Remember what I told you about being gay? And how Ryou and I talk about it openly because there’s nothing wrong with it?”

“Ryou is his Stephen King fanboy twin brother,” Keith editorializes for Shay and Allura. With a sigh, he frowns at his phone like focusing on it might magically convey his expression to Shiro. “But this is also pretty different from you being gay?”

“You’re right, it is. But Ulaz — sorry, Allura? Ulaz is my therapist. And, Keith, he’s trying to _get_ me more comfortable with talking about this as easily as I can talk about being gay. I understand that you feel _protective_ of me over this, but I’m not _that_ fragile… Not that it’s always _painless_ , either, but that’s part of Ulaz’s point? That talking about it more openly can _help_ me, and I need to work through some of the…” Trailing off, he sighs like he’s probably kneading the bridge of his nose right now. Although it doesn’t sound especially pained or tired, Keith’s stomach twists on itself, sick with guilt over making Shiro sigh like that.

But after a moment, his voice is almost back to normal as he explains, “Sorry for the hold-up, Allura. Keith has fair enough reason for acting like my own personal paladin about this. It’s still not easy for me to… Sometimes, just saying the _words_ , ‘primarily restrictive eating disorder’ can be difficult? Never mind admitting that they even apply to me? Or that I _have_ one? But for what it’s worth, I’m doing a lot better with it these days, so… It shouldn’t be a problem for dinner?”

_Yeah,_ Keith muses, glowering at his phone. _Because you have **never in your life** overestimated yourself and pushed past your limits about anything._

That, however, is a discussion for another time. Right now, Keith nods at Allura, then at the phone. She furrows her brow at him, but it’s not in confusion — _Of course it isn’t, moron. She’s smarter than you are, she can tell that you’re trying to get her to say something_ — so much as… Anger? Frustration? No, there isn’t enough of Allura’s usual fire, cold or otherwise, for that to be an angry face. Maybe it’s _disappointment_? Or it could be frustration, not at anyone in particular but in a more general sense? That would keep her from having as much energy behind her frown, since it’d be spread out and directionless? Maybe Keith is being a selfish jackass again and only thinking of himself, which is of course throwing him off, because Allura’s twisting up her mouth like that out of sympathy for Shiro and it just looks a little off because she’s had a long week and she’s _tired_? Why is her face doing this thing where it doesn’t want to let Keith understand what Allura’s trying to convey?

Whatever’s on her mind, though, she gives the phone a sympathetic sigh. “Thank you for sharing that with us, Shiro,” she says evenly, using the gentle voice that she usually saves for when Shay’s working too hard or Keith’s being a particularly worrisome shade of human headache. “It shouldn’t be any trouble at all to make a reservation somewhere as accommodating as possible. Do you have any particular preferences? Anything that you like better, or that might be easier for you than other choices?”

“Predicting that is sort of… Not _hard_ , exactly? But changes in circumstances can make it finicky?” Shiro sighs again, and this one, Keith knows as Shiro’s, _“I swear to God, I’m trying, but at the moment, things don’t want to work out exactly how I want them to”_ sigh. He doesn’t bother trying to force any brightness into his voice as he says, “But places that are, ‘too foodie’ aren’t my favorite? Most of them don’t let you do additions or substitutions, and I get why, on a culinary level? It’s still nicer to have more flexibility with the menu?”

Allura pouts and Keith has to stifle a snicker. Now she has one best friend who openly hates her foodie places and the sensory Hell they put him through, one girlfriend who only barely tolerates them because Shay doesn’t mind indulging Allura about her taste in so-called, “artisan foods,” and one best friend’s _“it’s complicated”_ who probably wouldn’t mind foodie places if he didn’t have an eating disorder to manage, but since he does, they’re apparently off his list forever (more or less). _God, it’s a good thing Shiro is the interesting twin and not his brother. Allura would probably die a little on the inside if she had to watch Ryou put ketchup on his fucking Olive Garden pasta…_

There’s a silver lining to everything about this, though. Namely: with Shiro’s disclosure out of the way, he and Allura slide right back into hitting it off. With Shay chiming in, they manage to chatter about dinner options in a way that sounds about halfway to truly happy, so much so that it coaxes a smile out of Keith’s mouth. Slouching against the foot of the bed, Keith is content to kick back and listen while his two favorite people discuss places to eat as if they’ve known each other for years already. Between the two of them, they know what he likes well enough that he doesn’t even need to speak up for himself on that count. The only thing that gets him to perk up is when he hears Shiro mention Chicago again, but Keith slips back into his borderline relaxation when it’s nothing _bad_.

Well, he can’t imagine that _Shiro_ enjoyed setting off the fire alarm in his dorm because he was so tired, he forgot to put water on a cup of Easy Mac, and standing outside in the freezing rain sounds about as fun as getting kicked in the head — but Shiro’s perpetual ineptitude at cooking is comforting in its familiarity. It might be nicer if he didn’t follow that anecdote by telling Allura about the time, shortly after Keith first blew into the Windy City, when he was too hungry for impulse control, seriously underestimated how much food was in a Chicago deep-dish pizza, and almost made himself get sick. But mildly embarrassing stories are better than almost anything else about Chicago, and if it keeps Shiro’s voice so light and his laughter sounding so earnest? Then fine, Keith can handle groaning and pretending that he minds Shiro airing this in an attempt to mortify him.

Anyway, fair is fair. Shiro embarrassed himself with the Easy Mac Microwave Disaster, so he’s probably allowed to embarrass Keith as well.

As the conversation wears on, though, exhaustion or something like it dogs after Keith, apparently intent on tackling him and making him feel everything he’s tried to shake off and push through for the past seven days. He smiles and nods when Shiro, Allura, and Shay ask if he’s okay with having Monday’s dinner at some place he’s never heard of, but the name sounds vaguely French and Allura swears that it’s neither too fancy nor too foodie. With his agreement, Allura asks Shiro about the show last Saturday, and thankfully, she keeps it focused on the music. What sort of a show can one expect when Galaxy Garrison plays, what sorts of influences does each member bring to the table, does Shiro have any favorites from their catalogue…

“I mean, calling it a catalogue feels a bit generous,” he tells her, “unless you want to include the stuff we did before we found each other? I had my Youtube channel, Hunk and Lance have been in a few other bands before finding one where they really fit, and Matt and Pidge used to teach each other new tricks in their parents’ garage whenever he was at home…”

The huff from Shiro’s end this time is pensive, but otherwise, Keith’s lost at figuring what it means. “But I guess one of my more recent favorites is… Well, it’s called, ‘When You’re Away,’ and it’s… I guess you could call it pretty personal? Most of our songs are but that one, especially? Because it’s kind of like…” As Shiro trails off, Keith can almost picture him slouching at the hips and dragging his hand back through his hair, making a face like he’s trying to unravel the one true secret of life, the universe, and everything for himself because he can’t accept anybody else’s answers.

Finally, and with an unexpected certainty, Shiro says, “‘When You’re Away’ is… I wrote it for someone who doesn’t know how special he is.”

Even before Allura bats her hand at his thigh, Keith perks up as much as he can manage right now. He squints at the phone, then gapes at Allura and hopes that she can read the, _“Did I hear that right? Like, I am not imagining things and he really did say what I think he said?”_ on his face, even if she doesn’t understand the full significance just yet. Nodding, she gives Keith a face that might be expectant but could just as easily be perplexed, and all he can do is shrug. She takes it in stride, asking Shiro how long he’s been writing his own songs, rather than zeroing in on that specific song itself. Strictly speaking, Keith isn’t sure he _meant_ to tell her not to dig too deeply, on that count, but then again, it hardly counts as _talking to Shiro_ about the song if Keith makes Allura ask the question _for_ him.

Right about now, Keith would even suck and up and do that, if he didn’t feel so completely _blah_ and _messy_. Tired, but it’s _advanced_ tired, and unfortunately, he isn’t sure that, if he turned in right now, he could actually get the fuck to sleep.

This drops onto him from out of nowhere, or so it feels, and on top of being a sudden, invasive bastard, it doesn’t have the decency to be straightforward. Part of Keith feels like he’s tipsy-but-not-yet-drunk, sliding into a warm bath while listening to Tori Amos’s version of, “I’m Not In Love,” paying no attention to the lyrics but basking in the slow, easy feel of the music and how her vocals on that track sound the way that Shiro said Vicodin was supposed to feel. Keith wants to take comfort in that feeling, but he _can’t_. Because he doesn’t _want_ to feel so slow and easy that he might as well not be feeling anything, not while Shiro and Allura are getting along. They still have to meet in person, sure, but for the time being, Keith’s _most favorite people on the planet_ seem to like each other and by all rights, Keith should be ecstatic.

Another part of Keith, though, feels like bugs are crawling underneath his skin and eels are slithering through his stomach and the only way to fix either problem would be puking but his body doesn’t think he’s nauseated enough yet, so Keith can have anxiety about throwing up instead — is it going to happen and if so when? Who knows? Not Keith, that’s who, but even that nagging worry can’t completely penetrate the hazy feeling that’s stretched out over everything. Still another part of him just feels _drained_ and _heavy_ … God, between everything he’s feeling and trying to keep up with the conversation, Keith’s head feels like an entire class of rowdy six-year-olds puked all over the inside of his brain. There’s almost enough going on tonight to make him hope Allura wants to crack open some preemptive birthday nunvil…… But only _almost_.

For one thing, as per Shiro’s blessing, Keith doesn’t need to quit drinking alcohol entirely — but at the same time, it’s probably better for Shiro and for their relationship, whatever it is and whatever state it’s in, if Keith at least _attempts_ to watch himself. Besides, he’s a nominal adult who, all his other problems notwithstanding, should have no trouble curbing his impulse to pull stunts like this, like getting tipsy because he’s annoyed that his brain-space feels messy and because if you can’t remember how to feel something when you’re drinking nunvil, then you may be well and truly screwed for life.

For another, though? Nunvil is an acquired taste, at its best, and fucking nasty, at its worst. It’s a sweet-and-spicy, slightly tangy Altean schnapps that pretty much has to get you wasted because nobody would be able to stomach it otherwise. It burns hot on the way down and the aftertaste lingers in your mouth for hours, progressively getting funnier in all kinds of unpredictable ways that vary based on whatever else you eat or drink. Keith’s used to it by now, but nunvil is still best saved for special occasions or the times when you want intoxication to batter you upside the head like an anvil crushing Wile E. Coyote. His tolerance for it doesn’t make anything better, either. When he and Allura got into some, last New Year’s Eve, she offhandedly mentioned that she was used to non-Alteans hating nunvil, but that Keith’s, _“I wouldn’t refuse if offered but I don’t actively enjoy it”_ attitude is something that she’s only seen in Galran people before.

Not that this, in itself, is horribly worrisome. But Keith is only finally accepting that, thanks to his blood family vanishing out of his life and all his foster families being whiter than sandwiches made from Miracle Whip and Wonder Bread, he’s probably never going to really know _anything_ about being Korean or what it means. The only things he has there are a lifetime of people who couldn’t tell if he was white or not, and the handful of other _Koganes_ he’s ever come across who turned out to be Japanese. He doesn’t need to be part-Galra with no clue what that even _means_ , on top of everything else that feels fucked and somehow wrong about him.

He doesn’t notice himself drooping until he’s being shaken around. His head’s on Allura’s shoulder and she’s frowning down at him while, somewhere above his head, Keith makes out Shiro’s voice getting higher-pitched than usual and asking what’s going on, what’s wrong, and wait, is anything wrong, is everything okay—

“Keith?” he calls out, almost sounding desperate, like he needs confirmation that everybody’s fine. “Keith, say something, _please_ —”

“’m _fine_ ,” Keith groans, flinching and then wondering why he did that. The lights aren’t that bright and nobody sounds upset with him. He doesn’t _feel_ like he’s in pain, but on the other hand, he can _hear_ Shiro’s voice saying _something_ , but the words feel like Keith’s hearing them through a wet cotton filter. His next attempted protest betrays him, coming out in a yawn. The only upside to this is that at least his ears feel like they pop and as he nuzzles at Allura’s shoulder, everything sounds noticeably clearer.

“I’m sorry, Shiro,” Allura says with a sigh. “I think that midterms might have finally caught up with Keith. He’s been pushing himself more than usual this week….”

Shiro makes a noise that Keith can’t quite decipher, then adds, “But he’s okay? For the most part?”

Curling her arm around Keith’s shoulders, Allura confirms that for Shiro. “He’s half-asleep on my shoulder, but fret not. I’ll help get him to the guest room that he likes, he can get some rest, and we’ll have him back to his usual self by morning.”

It occurs to Keith that he should protest this, somehow, because if you ask him, his usual self isn’t really an improvement on his sleep-deprived self. But even with his eyelids trying to glue themselves shut while he’s slumped over on Allura, he knows better than to say something like that out loud. Not where Allura and Shiro can _hear him_ do it, anyway. It’s bad enough that he’s making Allura worry her fingers through his hair and making Shiro get that uneasy but protective tone that his voice gets sometimes while he’s telling Keith to take care of himself and get some sleep.

“I have to get going for practice anyway, but we can talk more later, okay?” Shiro says appeasingly, like he’s trying to offer a compromise with someone who doesn’t know the meaning of that word — and considering the circumstances, that might not be too far off from the truth. “Sweet dreams, Keith.”

“Yeah, as long as they’re of _you_ , they will be…”

Dimly, Keith feels like this may not have been the best thing to say while so sleep-deprived that he’d sooner trust Drunk Keith behind the wheel of a car than trust himself right now, this very second. While he’s yawning again, he could swear that he hears a noise like Shiro choking on his Diet Coke, and when Allura finally eases him to his feet, Keith can’t help smirking at that thought. Shiro with a bright red flush spilling over his entire face and neck, too startled to drink his soda like an adult, all because of something that Keith said, all because Keith got under his skin and hit the right buttons in the exact right way…

It’s a sweeter mental image than any dream could ever hope to be, and as Keith flops into the guest bed, dwelling on that thought keeps his mouth curled in a smile.

*** * ***

> This one time when we were living in Chicago, Shiro thought I was in a bad mood. I didn’t agree with him, but to be fair, I’m not always the best judge of what I’m feeling. In the interests of cheering me up, he explained that his late namesake had found me something of a curiosity before that Saturday morning, but warmed up to me — “Well, as much as he ever warmed up to anybody but my Grandmother” — because of how passionately I’d disavowed Bryce as any brother of mine and the reasons that I’d given for doing so.
> 
> “He was big on having respect for family,” Shiro told me from the vanity mirror in his room, getting prettied up so we could head out for the club.
> 
> I was sitting on his bed, wearing a pair of my own jeans and a tight, crimson henley I’d borrowed from Trevor since we were about the same size, and I furrowed my brow at Shiro. “Yeah, but I was disavowing Bryce, right? Wasn’t that kinda spitting on family?”
> 
> “That’s what he thought at first, yeah…” Shiro sighed and took a moment to scrutinize himself in the smaller mirror with the zoom-in view. This, I’d learned by now, was how he made sure that he was satisfied with the concealer underneath his eyes. “But listening to you, he decided that you cared less about arbitrary rules, more about what family is really supposed to mean. He thought that was commendable, like it showed a strong sense of ethics and personal integrity. Thought it made you trustworthy — especially about protecting me, which was the biggest deal for him since I was his family.”
> 
> Next thing I knew, Shiro flopped on the bed and dropped his head in my lap. Batting his eyes and smiling like an angel with a halo held up by horns, he said, “So, was Grandfather Namesake right? Do I have a big, strong knight in shining combat boots to keep me safe from any black knights or dragons or things that like kidnapping beautiful, rebellious princes?”
> 
> “But… you got me the matte finish on my combat boots?” I said it without thinking and blushed when Shiro snorted. The boots had been part of his Christmas present for me and I loved them too much to wear them daily and make them turn into a fucking mess. I was only wearing them that night because Shiro asked me to.
> 
> Still, as my brain caught up with the rest of me, I couldn’t ignore what he’d actually said. “I mean, you might have to settle for a knight in matte-finished combat boots? Or, like, a short paladin who’s stronger than he looks, but that probably doesn’t mean much because he looks like a strong breeze could knock him on his ass, and he’s still in matte-finished combat boots? ‘cause we’re outta stock of big, strong, pretty boy knights and their shining armor too?”
> 
> I tried to smile, and at the time, I had no idea why forcing my lips to curl made the inside of my chest ache so much. “But yeah, no… Of course I’ll protect you. Somebody has to make sure you don’t get lost in the deep, dark club full of, I dunno, beguiling half-naked cock-hounds? Who inevitably have a taste for beautiful, rebellious princes because they’d have to be idiots not to want you?”
> 
> Reaching up, he trailed the backs of his fingers down my cheek. “You say the sweetest things, Sir Knight.”
> 
> “I know, right? I even know some sonnets about a man from Nantucket, if milord wants to go full courtly love bullshit on this…” That made Shiro laugh again and while he was preoccupied with that, I let myself brush my fingers through his hair.
> 
> Then, I got bold, which is a nicer way of saying stupid, and before I could think to stop it, found myself reciting, barely above a whisper, “‘Sweet prince, I come! These, these thy amorous lines / Might have enforc’d me to have swum from France, / And, like Leander, gasp’d upon the sand, / So thou wouldst smile, and take me in thine arms. / The sight of London to my exil’d eyes / Is as Elysium to a new-come soul: / Not that I love the city or the men, / But that it harbours him I hold so dear— / The king, upon whose bosom let me die, / And with the world still be at enmity.’”
> 
> Dropping his hand, Shiro forced a laugh that sounded more like coughing. “Okay, wow. Brushed up your Shakespeare lately?”
> 
> “Ugh, come on, it’s Christopher Marlowe…” Rolling my eyes was probably a bit much, but at the same time? Shiro, of all people, should’ve known better than to think that anything using, ‘thee’ and, ‘thou’ was Shakespeare by default. “It’s a Gaveston speech from his Edward II. It was in that anthology of gay and lesbian love poetry you brought home for me.”
> 
> “Did…?” I had no idea why Shiro looked so perplexed, but it tied my stomach in a knot, which wasn’t helped at all when he finished up that question: “Did you learn that for me?”
> 
> I wrinkled my nose at him. “You asked me to.”
> 
> Shiro got a look of recognition as he teetered into sitting up, muttering something that sounded like, “I didn’t think you actually would.”
> 
> Watching him stare at his floor and rub the bridge of his nose, I wished that we could do this over. Terrible as it sounds, I wished that I could reach back in time to two weeks before this episode and make it so he’d been in a blackout when giving me that book. He’d snagged it from the back of the shop because he knew that poetry was usually more his speed than mine, but he thought it’d be nice to round out my reading list. Maybe it had been a joke, but I’d taken him at face-value when he asked me to recite something for him sometime, so he could learn what kind of poetry I liked the best. Strictly speaking, it was less that I enjoyed the Marlowe — my favorites were the pieces from James Baldwin, Vita Sackville-West, Renée Vivien, and Federico Garcia Lorca — but Gaveston’s speech had reminded me of Shiro. That and the meter made it easier than anything else to commit to memory for him.
> 
> I regret that second wish even more, now that he’s back in my life and trying to stay clean. But at the time, it felt like Shiro being blackout wasted would’ve been better because it would’ve hurt less. Because then, he would’ve forgotten that he’d asked me to recite anything and I wouldn’t have been able to get too mad about it, considering his level of intoxication and all of the frankly understandable reasons why he hated being sober. Instead, he remembered asking but didn’t think I took him seriously. He remembered requesting a personal recitation but he hadn’t thought that I cared about him enough to give him that. Maybe he felt less like that and more like he didn’t mean that much to me, but that alternative wasn’t exactly better.
> 
> The worst part, though, was that I didn’t know why this fucking hurt so badly. I know now, yeah, but riddle me this, Ryner: how am I supposed to accurately recreate the scene, how am I meant to capture this experience honestly and on its own terms if I just flat-out tell you that I fell in love with the guy who, at the time, was both my best and only friend and I was so unbelievably goddamned stupid that I didn’t realize it, not even while stroking his hair and reciting love poetry that had made me think of him?
> 
> This all feels pretty fucking Scylla and Charybdis, thanks. Because if I leave out the explanation, then I have to zero in on the details of the scene itself. I have to tell you about how looking at Shiro’s quivering, terrified expression felt like getting cracked on the jaw and told to go pray, except this time, Jesus actually decided to talk back so he could personally ask what the Hell I thought that I was doing. I have to tell you how I hadn’t smelled Shiro’s Altoids, or didn’t think I had, but I also hadn’t smelled tequila, and he went so pale and shaky that I racked my brain and hated myself for not paying better attention to his pupils while he’d been fluttering his eyelids at me, because maybe he wasn’t on anything and that was why he looked so sick, but I didn’t want to get into one of his stashes for him if he’d taken anything recently and it felt like anything I did right now could kill him and that made me want to scream.
> 
> All of which I thought was a perfectly acceptable approach to writing, but based on how my last in-class critique went, I’m no longer certain, because apparently, if I do that, then I’m being vague. Because, as far as I can tell from what I heard on my piece about the protest, immersing the reader in those kinds of visceral details doesn’t mean jack-fuck anything unless I rattle off the exact meaning that I want it to have and what my quote-unquote, “personal connection” to the material is like this is the fucking National Spelling Bee or something. Y’all expect me to paint that garbage on the wall for you as if it’s not condescending as all get-out, as if it wouldn’t be spoon-feeding the readers because apparently, they can’t do anything themselves anymore?
> 
> Not that I’m daring to question Margaret Atwood or anything, because it is ridiculous to assume what kind of woman Mary is when she kills herself using sherry instead of whiskey, but for the ever-living love of fuck, Ryner: when the author puts in the work to establish a fabric of context and uses their choice of details to create a certain emotional effect, it is NOT unreasonable to expect the reader to do some of the fucking work here. This is an upper-level writing course, not group therapy. I should not have to regale you people with a bunch of goddamn, “I” statements about the content of my stories and/or why I wrote them, e.g., “I busted my ass to write a piece about my friend Shay’s protest because I feel that the sociopolitical issues are important, because I see that all of us are affected by the debates about which kinds of speech we choose to censor or protect as well as by the environment that gets created on campus when our Dean of Student Life invites certain fuckheads who used to write for Breitbart to speak, despite how he (Dean Zarkon) was presented with a veritable mountain of evidence about why this was a terrible idea.”
> 
> Or there’s the more direct option: “I agree with Kurt Vonnegut’s first rule of writing, and I feel that making people read about any so-called, ‘personal connection’ I have to the content of my stories would waste their fucking time. I do not want to spew the asinine details of my personal life all over this class like Linda Blair projectile vomiting in The Exorcist. I believe that all of this is bullshit and I want to write something that actually fucking matters.”
> 
> See what I mean? That’s a goldmine for a therapist, but it’s terrible fucking writing, Ryner.
> 
> But then, if I can’t have my details in this story, the other approach is to tell y’all that I was falling in love with Shiro, come right out in the open and say it as though this makes any fucking difference, as though it matters when it doesn’t. There is nothing special about my experiences, Ryner. There is nothing unique about them and nothing that would not be a massive waste of time to anyone who isn’t paid to suffer through hearing this shit, in some alternate reality where therapists aren’t a bunch of lying, useless backstabbers and I can actually afford to see one. Fact is, my life is only interesting to me because I’m the dumb-fuck stuck living in it. I am not the only moron who’s ever fallen for someone they didn’t deserve, who didn’t want them back, nor am I the only person in the world who says they’re over something that happened ages ago but obviously isn’t, and I thought I was, but then guess what happened! Well, hey, the sad, sweet, beautiful boy who I loved and hurt and abandoned while feeling like he was the one who’d done the leaving because I am, as mentioned, a fucking idiot?
> 
> Of all the garages under all the shitty postage-stamp studio walk-ups in all the towns in all the world, Shiro and his punk band practice in the one where I live.
> 
> We found each other because I went to yell at them for keeping me awake at four in the fucking morning, and ever since, we’ve been slipping back into the same kind of intimacy that I misinterpreted the first time. And I thought that I was over Shiro because I’ve fallen in love with someone else since leaving him even though romantically, it didn’t quite work out and I’d rather have her in my life as my best friend than keep trying to be her boyfriend until we fucking hate each other. But as evidenced by how fucked up I get about him and how I’m definitely busting your maximum word-count after I’ve spent the entire semester until now going, “I don’t know what you want from me, I don’t have any personal stories that I can write about”? I’m not over Shiro and in all fucking likelihood, I never was. I just thought so because his absence made it easier to tune out my memories of him (which are now kicking my ass daily since he came back and I tell you what, it fucking sucks), and thinking I’d never see him again made it easier not to think about him any time I was subjected to some moony-eyed, sappier than maple syrup love song while on-line at a coffee-shop.
> 
> So, I could look back on the scene at-hand and tell you that Shiro probably looked so horrified because he realized before I did that I was falling for him after agreeing while stone-cold sober that I wouldn’t do that because he didn’t want that kind of relationship, because he’d promised his loyalty to Maurice, his own personal Big Bad Wolf, who would be the hands-down villain in this story if the alleged knight had been anyone but me.
> 
> I could editorialize and say that, while Mark was driving us out to Lake View, Shiro offhandedly mentioned that he was on Percocet but Maurice was, “in a Mood with [him] right now” and, “being stingy” about letting Shiro get scrips from Maurice’s actual partner, Haxus, and Shiro taken less than his usual dose in an effort to make his stashes last longer, hopefully until he, “[got] it together and fix[ed] whatever [he’d done] to piss Maurice off this time.” So, let’s go ahead and add another tally to the list of reasons why I’m a fucking bonehead, because there wasn’t any emotional reason for Shiro to look pale and shaky and sick, the way he did. I wanted there to be because I’m selfish. Because I didn’t want Shiro to look like that or be in pain, but if he had to look like that at all, ever, then I wanted it to be because maybe there was a chance in Hell that he would ever love me back, not because he wasn’t completely detoxing but also didn’t have as much junk in his system as he wanted.
> 
> I could project what I’ve learned in the past week back onto the scene of me sitting on Shiro’s bed and quoting Marlowe at him without knowing why, and tell you that I was in love with him then and I still am, and that’s the reason why, when I looked at him, it felt like my heart was too big for my chest and I couldn’t fucking breathe.
> 
> Except doing that offends every single one of my sensibilities as a fledgling historian because, “creative” or not, this piece is still supposed to be NON-fiction. Providing the reader explanations that I didn’t have available to me at the time because I was eighteen years old and a fucking idiot? That’s what I call distorting the picture. And I thought that you could leave those kinds of explanations off and write a scene that doesn’t have them, where the absence of the thing is entirely the point because based on the context, you can now infer what isn’t being said and get kicked in the gut like I was by the kind of lack where you know that something’s missing but knowing isn’t half the battle, all it does is prevent you from pretending that anything’s okay.
> 
> So, here we are: I was just a boy, sitting on another boy’s bed, watching him look like he might vomit because I’d recited poetry for him and wondering why it felt like my entire life was hanging on what he did next when I knew good and goddamn well that it wasn’t.
> 
> Not that it mattered, anyway. Whatever I fucked up that night or any other time, it didn’t interrupt our original plan all that horribly.
> 
> Dragging a hand through his hair and himself to his feet, Shiro sighed. His smile trembled like it was two seconds off from breaking. “Come on, Sir Knight,” he said, holding out his hand to help me up. “Mark’s gonna make us find our own way to the bar if we keep him waiting too much longer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ……Keith is trying. This is possibly an even more slow-burn process than him and Shiro getting together and letting themselves love each other, but I swear to God that Keith is really, truly trying.
> 
> Also, some credits and acknowledgments where they’re due:
> 
>   * The Margaret Atwood that Keith is referencing with Ryner is her classic short story, “[Happy Endings](http://www.napavalley.edu/people/LYanover/Documents/English%20123/English%20123%20Margaret%20Atwood%27s%20HappyEndings.pdf).”
>   * Technically, Kurt Vonnegut’s [eight simple rules](https://thoughtcapital.wordpress.com/2007/04/13/kurt-vonneguts-8-rules-for-writing/) are for writing fiction, not non-fiction (even creative non-fiction like Keith is doing), but I’ve found that they’re generally pretty reliable in either case. Keith, however, is mostly referencing them because: 1. he associated Vonnegut with Shiro, so Vonnegut is more on his mind than usual; and 2. he’s grasping at whatever justifications and tools he can find to express his distaste for this assignment.
>   * The speech Keith quotes from Christopher Marlowe’s _Edward II_ can, indeed, be found in an anthology of gay and lesbian love poetry. Namely: **_Love Speaks Its Name: Gay and Lesbian Love Poems_** (ed. J.D. McClatchy, Alfred A. Knopf, 2001). It’s part of the Everyman’s Library Pocket Poets series, and it’s a good little book. Or anyway, it’s a little book that I’m rather fond of.
>   * Samuel Delany’s _Times Square Red, Times Square Blue_ is also a little book I’m rather fond of.
>   * I made up Allura’s last name by combining “orla” (after Queen Orla from DotU) with a few pieces of a few different languages’ words for, “queen” until I found something that I liked. Her House’s name is after Alfor’s counterpart from _Beast King GoLion_ , King Raimon.
>   * I hate titling things, which is why the titles of Ryner’s and Kolivan’s books kinda suck. Whoops?
>   * Also, a disclaimer: if you are a student, **please, for the love of all things beautiful, DO NOT pull a stunt like Keith is pulling with Ryner’s essay**. If your profs give you an upper word count limit, stick to it, and unless it’s part of the assignment, you probably shouldn’t address them directly or tell them off like Keith is doing. Seriously, I pulled a stunt like that once in undergrad and only remotely got away with it because my meds were acting up, the assignment was a minor one and not a midterm, and my (very understanding) professor liked me.
>     * Seriously, I cannot stress this enough: **Do *NOT* do what Keith is doing, it’s a bad idea and your professors will probably not react like Ryner’s going to with Keith.**
>   * “Vorpal” is a great word and I like it. Thank you, Lewis Carroll.
> 

> 
> Anywho, in our next episode: Pidge! Coran! Sendak (or at least one of Keith’s memories of him)! More Lance and Hunk! Keith being sleep-deprived and making questionable life choices while Allura’s in the Poconos (though really, he would probably make the same choices if she weren’t because she isn’t actually 85% of his impulse control and he wouldn’t want you to say anything like that about her anyway)! ……Yay?


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so, some **content warnings for this chapter:** depression and PTSD (Shiro’s is addressed and depicted, but the most explicit parts have to do with Keith explicitly verbalizing some parts of his struggles with these issues and being, in general, a high-key Mess); self-harm (mostly, it is alluded to more than depicted, but Keith also verbalizes the desire to self-harm); suicidal ideation (again, largely with Keith, though he also expresses some fear that Shiro might have dealt with suicidal ideation); abuse (with Sendak, more inexplicit than not but it’s still very present); eating disorders and substance abuse (in that Shiro’s experiences with both are a pretty big part of this chapter);
> 
> and **a past incident of questionable consent between Keith and Shiro** (rating-wise and re: the amount of detail, it’s on a fine line between Mature and Explicit. As for the consent itself, both Shiro and Keith consented at the time and feel that they gave consent. However, Shiro’s substance abuse affects things — he is legally too high to consent, but this incident also takes place at a point when he would be a sick, detoxing mess if he weren’t on _something_ — and although both he and Keith feel like they gave consent, they are also choosing to have sex with each other for reasons other than, “Because they have freely decided that they want to,” and although Keith’s POV is front and center because he’s the one narrating it, both of them have mixed feelings about this particular incident after the fact).

Come morning, Allura nudges Keith awake, crouching by the side of the guest bed and brushing her long fingers through his hair when he comes around. She doesn’t keep him in the waking world for long, only kisses his forehead and tells him that she wanted to say, _“Goodbye,” “Lest you forget or get any questionable ideas, your invitation to stay here still stands when I’m out of town, as does your access to the kitchen,”_ and, _“Please take care of yourself, darling”_ before she and Shay left. According to Allura, they should have decent enough reception at her Mother’s place, so she’ll let him know if they’ll be back for breakfast on Monday and Keith can call, should he find himself in need of anything.

“I’ll try not to,” he mumbles, then yawns as she pushes his hair back. “It’s just gonna be me and my essay anyway…”

“Don’t terribly stress yourself about that,” Allura says, trying to set her jaw. The message that she means business about this comes across, but it’s somewhat softened by how she looks like she’ll nod off in the passenger seat before she and Shay are even outside the city limits. “Challenging as it feels? It is only an essay and it is no match for you.”

“It’s mostly done, I think?” Keith offers with a limp shrug, as much as he can manage while he’s on his side and cocooned in a comforter. “Still some parts that need to be argued with but…” He gives her a smile, if a small one. “You’re right, Princess, I got this…”

He leaves out the part where he has a spare set of clothes in his backpack, folded up in a tightly-packed ball, in case he doesn’t make it home before Monday morning. Not that he _plans_ to do this, because it would make his skin crawl from falling so far outside of how he likes for things in his life to work. Then again, the odds haven’t quite been in his favor, lately, and Keith probably used up his good luck when his grant check came on Tuesday, a few days earlier than he’d expected. It helps to know that Morvok already has his rent check, but Keith’s writing doesn’t feel even close to finished. There’s so much he has to type up from his notebook before midnight on Monday but something doesn’t feel _done_ about the story, and while he wouldn’t mind _Ryner’s_ disappointment, Keith has his pride and his personal integrity. Turning in a story that doesn’t feel properly complete would surely be a sign of failure.

Worse comes to worst, Keith guesses that can work at the 24/7 Internet cafe a few blocks off from the north end of campus, and try to crash on a sofa in one of the dormitories’ common rooms, if he needs a bit of sleep to keep on truckin’. It’s better and less risky, after all, than breaking into someone’s car.

Either way, bringing all of this up with his Princess is hardly in either of their best interests. True, there’s somewhat less for Allura to worry about, this time. But she _would_ be worried, if she heard the whole truth, and precedent would give her good reason for that, and as he squints up at her, Keith can’t tell which choice would do the most damage to both of them in the long run: leaving things out like this, which might let Allura have more of a relaxing weekend with Shay, or actively taking that away from her.

Falling what feels like somewhere in the middle, Keith doesn’t put too much effort into forcing a smile, but still tells her, “I’ve got this and you’ve gotta head out… Have good sex this weekend, Princess.”

That earns him a playful swat on the shoulder and a hand mussing up his hair. “Get some more rest before you attempt to finish conquering your assignment,” Allura says gently. “And Coran isn’t feeling well, so he might still be here when you wake up. But if he isn’t, please make sure to lock up when you leave?”

Fair enough: Keith knows where the spare key is, and he’s locked up the townhouse before. More than he can say, he appreciates Allura leaving it open for him to choose to stay, to leave and then come back, or to do something else that seems like a better idea than either of those options. He probably couldn’t spit that out right even if he weren’t so tired that he drops back to sleep before Allura even shuts the bedroom door.

When he comes around later, Keith can’t tell how long it’s been but he slept through his daily alarm and feels like he’s been hit by a bus. It’s so unfair, the way he can sleep and still not feel rested. Ten-thirty by his phone’s clock isn’t too bad a time to rouse, relative to sleeping until late afternoon. But as Keith sludges through getting his jeans on and his things together, he could kick himself for crashing out so hard when he knows that he has work to do.

Stopping in the kitchen is more out of pragmatism than desire. Even if breakfast doesn’t entirely _help_ , skipping it will definitely _hurt_ and Keith cannot afford that kind of hold-up at the moment, not when basic-level maintenance is so freaking easy for him. Anyway, part of his access to the kitchen includes permission to borrow any of Allura’s thermoses for as much coffee as he likes, provided he washes the container out before returning it. Having leftover pizza would make everything go faster, but Shay and Allura must have finished it, and Keith makes do.

Munching his bagel and oatmeal, Keith almost lets himself relax. He settles more than he usually would with so much work left to finish, basking in the warmth from a long sip of coffee. Between the brown sugar taste and the building awareness of how much better it feels to have eaten something, Keith gets feeling like maybe he’s been dramatic. Maybe getting up late isn’t such a setback and maybe he really does have his essay handled.

But as he sighs at the lack of new texts from Shiro and flicks through his news app instead, something crashes down the corridor. Keith frowns and nudges his calf against his backpack, reminding himself that it’s still here. Good thing, too. Burglars seem unlikely, and if there are any, they might be the worst attempted felons in the city… Then again, the townhouse stands out, even amongst the other swank properties uptown, and it _is_ mid-morning… Risky time to rob someone but also unexpected, and Keith doesn’t know what the cops’ shift schedule is like up here but hypothetical criminals might… It wouldn’t be the first time that someone’s tried to rip off Allura and any of her parents…

Fortunately, the penthouse has a protector today. Reaching for his bag’s front pocket, Keith keeps his breaths as soft and even as he can. He watches the open threshold between the kitchen and the living room as he undoes the zipper. Still no one there as he ghosts his fingertips over Mom’s knife, along the flat side of the blade and the deep grooves in the metal. She may not have hung around for long enough to explain what the markings on it meant or to give him better lessons, but she laid a decent groundwork and Keith’s taught himself to wield her knife just fine.

As he gets up, Keith’s never been more thankful for the carpet under Allura’s kitchen table. Usually, it’s irritating, something expensive that he has to worry about ruining. Now, it muffles the sound as he shoves back his chair. He rises to his feet, puts the battered leather sheath in his hip pocket. He closes his so he can focus, holds his breath to try and better hear what’s going on. Whoever’s in the hallway, they’re springing toward the kitchen. Tightening his grip on the hilt, Keith sets his jaw. He darts around the table and rushes toward the source of the sounds, knife drawn up and arm ready to strike and—

“ _Keith, wait!_ ”

Crying out in shock, Keith pulls back. Jerks himself out of his planned motion and skids to a halt in the nick of time. He keeps his hand wrapped around the knife, but the heat and color drain from his face and neck as he furrows his brow at the tightly-knit, concerned expression. His knees wobble ever-so-slightly as he blinks at a quivering, ginger-orange mustache like he’s never seen someone with facial hair before. Groaning, Keith slouches and drops his arm but doesn’t put the knife away.

“Sorry, Coran — I didn’t mean to, like…” Keith sighs heavily. “I thought somebody might be robbing you…?”

While this attempted explanation gets Coran to relax his shoulders somewhat, he doesn’t unknot his brow or seem much reassured. Standing there and sniffling in his blue silk-looking pajamas, he gawks at Keith. It takes a moment of bemused spluttering, but Coran finally gets out, “Why in all creation would you think that?”

“I… heard something crash?” Keith shrugs. This is hardly the weirdest explanation Coran has ever heard from him. Leaning to the side, he squints down the corridor. Nothing _looks_ like it’s gotten wrecked up lately, though — nothing even looks, _“party that got out-of-hand and cleaned up just before somebody’s parents got back home”_ levels of messy — so what the Hell is going on? “…I _thought_ I heard something crash, anyway?”

“That may have been _my_ doing, actually? Rather than anything getting knocked around?” Coran grins sheepishly. If he didn’t look somewhat flushed already, he’d probably be twinging pink. “Platt managed to get himself out of their homestead again, and I found him harassing Leona again and thought that perhaps I ought to put a stop to it, then get him back where he belongs. Which was not managed without a bit of _diiiiiiifficul_ …”

As Coran buries a loud sneeze in the crook of his elbow, all Keith can think of to say is, “…Right. Sure.” But that makes him no different from most people who ever hear the tales of Allura’s largest pet mouse and the mischief he gets up to when he works his way out of the cage. Granted, it can hardly be called a _cage_ when it’s bigger than any Fill-In-The-Blank Barbie Dream-House Keith has ever seen in his life, better furnished than his apartment and the college’s dormitories, and filled with amenities that Keith can only imagine humans only get at five-star hotels — and yet, Platt continually treats the thing like it’s a prison that he need to dig his way out of with a spoon, so help him Jesus. Once he’s free, there’s almost no telling what he’ll get up to. If Keith hadn’t firsthand witnessed Platt trying to fight Alfor’s cat before, he wouldn’t believe that such a thing was even an option.

At the moment, though, there’s still the issue of Coran, and how he’s furrowing his brow and blinking at Keith… curiously? Skeptically? Something else entirely? It’s kinda hard to tell when his ever-immaculate handlebar mustache droops over his lip, like right now — but Coran clears things up when he says, “What is _that_ … A _knife_?”

“I have a permit,” Keith says. As if it helps prove that he isn’t lying, he brings the knife up where Coran can better inspect the silvery blade and clipped point that _barely_ squeaked past the local regulations.

That said, Keith doesn’t hand anything over. He also leaves out the part where he has definitely had Mom’s knife on his person at times and in situations when he really shouldn’t have done. For example, any time he’s ever had it in his backpack around campus, which Coran’s position as the Assistant Dean of Student Life obligates him to both report and care about. Neither of those sounds like a good thing, to Keith. On one hand, there’s all manner of tedious paperwork and potential problems that could come out of Coran having to acknowledge Keith’s knife in an official capacity. On the other, his concern has never quite stopped feeling like pity, though that’s more on Keith than Coran. Worse, it always has an edge of _disappointment_ that never fails to make Keith wonder if this is one of the things he missed out on, not having parents who stuck around to raise him.

But as long as Coran doesn’t ask about anything outright, Keith doesn’t have to full-on lie. As long as he doesn’t need to lie, Keith won’t need to choose between getting Coran in trouble or feeling guilty about yet another thing he’s possibly screwed up.

“Legally, it isn’t double-edged,” Keith points out when Coran’s examination of Mom’s knife stays silent long enough to grate his nerves. “The laws in Texas and Illinois were a little more relaxed about that, but… It’s fine. And I have a permit.”

He shrugs, and briefly, Coran looks up from the blade with an uneasy expression. “Legal or not, Keith, I’m not _entirely_ certain that I can _condone_ this?” He thinks for a moment and quickly clarifies, “In an _unofficial_ capacity, I mean. Not that I should condone it in an official capacity either, but for right now? I’m speaking only as someone who _care_ — er, who takes an _interest_ in and values you?”

_Nice save, Coran_ , Keith keeps to himself. He says aloud, “I’ve never used it on myself or anybody else, okay? The closest I ever got to that was pulling it on _one_ of my foster brothers, _once_. I got sick of him and some of his crew bullying an old friend, and thought I’d scare them into leaving her alone.”

Not that it went entirely in Keith’s favor, scaring Bryce and some of his not-Shiro buddies from tormenting Heather when she already lived in Hell at home. Keith’s case-worker got called in, he had to answer for himself, there was tedious paperwork that sucked for everyone involved, and Keith felt bad about making Mr. and Mrs. Taylor deal with that, for all Bryce could’ve taken worse without tripping up Keith’s conscience any. But that’s all over and done with, while in the here and now, Coran’s mustache is twitching like he still isn’t reassured by that fact. Or possibly like an agitated bunny’s nose. Maybe a bit of both. With a huff, Keith unpockets the sheath with a mind to put the knife away. Getting it out of Coran’s line of sight will let him forget about it more easily, right? Except Coran tuts at him before he can pull it back, and while Keith frowns at him, Coran squints at the etchings on the blade.

“Where did you even _find_ this?” he says in something like wonder. At Keith tightening his grip on the hilt, Coran smiles sympathetically. “I don’t intend to take any action about you having it, Keith. I may not _enjoy_ the idea, but as you’ve said, you have a permit. All I want to _know_ is…” He jerks back from the knife and muffles another sneeze into the same wet spot that his last one left on his pajamas. It unsettles him almost as much as seeing Keith’s knife in the first place, and he blows his nose into a handkerchief as he returns to slouching.

“Midterm sickness?” Keith hardly needs to _ask_ , but still, it feels polite.

“Occupational hazard, I’m afraid. Comes with working in a petri dish.” Although Coran chuckles a bit at a joke that Keith has heard from him before, he doesn’t let Keith distract him. Dabbing at his nose, he says, “All I mean to ask is where you came upon a knife with… _those_ markings?”

“Uh, it’s one of the only things that I have left of my Mom’s?” With a nod from Coran, Keith puts the blade back in its covering, but now, it feels less like a matter of safety, and more like a question of _modesty_. He knows that Coran hasn’t glimpsed anything indecent, but he still feels so _exposed_ , like in examining Mom’s knife, Coran’s somehow seen inside his soul. But his one-liner explanation probably isn’t good enough for Coran’s curiosity, and Keith _did_ just accidentally pull a knife on someone who’s been kind to him, so he tacks on, “I mean, I don’t know where _she_ got her hands on it, but I guess it was important that she left it for me before she… Y’know.”

Strictly speaking, Coran _doesn’t_ know, aside from the part where Keith’s an orphan. But right now, that’s all he _needs_ to know.

At least, Coran doesn’t press Keith about that. “Well, if you’re still working with Kolivan,” he says, “then I think that you _might_ want to have a meeting and let _him_ take a look at that knife. Officially, I would advise you to have said meeting _off_ -campus, _but_ considering everything…?” He throws Keith a smile, and Keith can’t tell if it’s devious or sympathetic. “ _Unofficially_ , as long as you don’t get caught or show the knife to anyone but your advisor, then under the circumstances, I suppose that I could simply look the other way about it?”

“Are you trying to get me to bribe you?” Keith says without thinking. “Because you _know_ I don’t really _have_ —”

“Keith, even if you _did_ have those kinds of resources, I wouldn’t ask that of you.” And now he looks confused, and maybe a little sad, and Keith _wants_ to apologize, but Coran gets his word in edgewise first: “I’m saying that _Kolivan_ is better prepared to address those particular markings on your knife than I am, and considering its importance to you, I won’t cause a fuss if the two of you cannot meet off-campus. That would still be _preferable_ to you discussing it in his office, but with schedules being what they are and Kolivan having a department to run…”

Another sympathetic smile, which isn’t settling Keith’s nerves as much as Coran probably wants it to do. “Just promise me that, whatever happens, you _will_ be careful with that thing, alright?”

It takes massive effort not to sigh in relief, but Keith agrees to that. After all, he hasn’t made it this far _without_ being careful with Mom’s old knife, not when getting reckless with it would’ve gotten the blade taken from him, too. Whatever Kolivan has to do with it, Keith can worry about that later. For now, it’s good enough to get Coran’s blessing, finish breakfast, and head off somewhere to finish his writing.

*** * ***

> Wanting to protect Shiro started way before I first fell in love with him, before it occurred to me that I ever might. As with so many of our important moments from Corpus Christi, it happened one evening at the Shirogane kitchen table, while the two of us were meant to be working on my algebra. In fairness, Shiro was actually trying to keep us focused, while I was the one getting distracted. It’d been about three weeks since they’d buried Shiro’s namesake Grandfather, and I didn’t expect Shiro to just magically get over it, especially not when Takashi the First had seemingly been in perfect health? But he’d been looking especially pale and tired since the funeral, and today, he kept wincing and rubbing the bridge of his nose.
> 
> “It’s fine, Keith,” he insisted with a small, unconvincing smile. “Just a headache.”
> 
> “That doesn’t sound fine…” I pointed out, frowning at him in concern. He shrugged and said that he’d taken something for it before I’d gotten there, but this fact didn’t help. “That was, like? Over an hour ago? Shouldn’t it’ve worked by now? D’you need to lie down? Or get some water? Or maybe d’you need to eat something?”
> 
> As far as I knew, Shiro hadn’t yet skipped a meal intentionally. He counted calories sometimes, but he was an athlete, so fixating somewhat on his food intake made perfect sense to me. Okay, he wasn’t a gymnast or a ballerina, stuck on some extreme diet because he had to maintain strength without getting too heavy, and he wasn’t carb-loading while training for a marathon — but Shiro took lacrosse and soccer seriously, and I trusted that he wanted to make sure that he got enough of the nutrients he needed. So, I didn’t quite know what to make of it when he slouched and combed his fingers back through his hair and got a faraway look like he couldn’t remember something that he knew he should’ve known.
> 
> “Eating, yeah…” He sighed and leaned onto his elbows, which made me scoot closer to him and put my hand on his shoulder, the way he always did when I was struggling with a set of problems. “It’s not like I…” He shook his head. “I tried earlier, I had lunch with Ryou, Laura, and Michelle, and I tried, but… I dunno, I felt like I couldn’t keep down much of anything…”
> 
> In retrospect, I don’t know what to make of Shiro mentioning that he’d felt so ill. At the time, I had no reason to suspect that it was anything untoward, much less that he might’ve had certain habits that involved making himself throw up on purpose. Looking back on it, though? I know that he started doing that, eventually, and I can’t help wondering when it started. Unfortunately, Shiro is one of the best hands I’ve ever known at selectively tailoring the appearances of any given situation to be more appealing and at telling people what they want to hear. Even if I’d had reason to think he was hurting himself back then, he could’ve kept me in the dark all too easily.
> 
> As it stood, though, I tried not to pout. “Can I fix you something? Sick or not, you should still try, right?”
> 
> He blinked at my hand on his shoulder, and then at me. Had it been anybody else, I might’ve gotten offended at what seemed like a lack of trust in my abilities, and even knowing that Shiro didn’t think I was incapable of anything, I still sat up straighter as if it made the point that I knew what I was doing and wanted to help out however I could. Maybe I couldn’t do much and it wasn’t my kitchen and I didn’t know if his family had any dinner plans in place — though given that it was getting past six, Ryou was at a late-running robotics meeting, and their parents and Grandmother weren’t home yet, I suspected not — but I couldn’t let Shiro keep suffering. That said, I also couldn’t let him try cooking for himself. Hand him anything more complicated than toaster waffles, and he could find a way to start a fire, turn the meal toxic, or make something explode.
> 
> “Don’t you have to get home for dinner, too?” When I told him that I was on my own because Bryce’s parents were working late, Shiro sighed and pointed out which cabinet had the easy-fix junk like Kraft mac and cheese. “Might as well get something for both of us, right?”
> 
> Which made perfect sense, and it was somewhat encouraging, but I still tossed Shiro an apple from the bowl on the counter. My making us food would only help him feel better when it was done and edible. It made me feel a little bit better that he actually ate the thing as I pawed around in the cabinets and the fridge, first for the box of mac and cheese, then for the right pan, and finally, for the milk and butter. So, he’d felt sick earlier but maybe he was doing okay now and simply needed an actual meal, now that he could hopefully keep something down? While I set the water up to boil on the stove, Shiro tried to give my theory a smile and for once, it felt like he was doing it to reassure himself more than doing it for my sake.
> 
> “I don’t know, but I think it’s a nerves thing, not an actual illness thing?” He ruffled a hand over his hair but didn’t explain what he meant until, leaning on the counter, I outright asked him. With a weird, haunted look about the eyes, Shiro told me, “It’s not… I mean, it’s not good, but it could be worse? And I even know it could be worse, which doesn’t help, ‘cause now, I feel like I’m being an idiot, but…”
> 
> “It’s okay, Shiro. You don’t have to tell me the rest if you don’t want to.” Much as I wanted to know, he was trembling and he’d lost most of the color in his face, and I didn’t want to cause him any additional pain on top of whatever was stressing him out — and that was a wide open field, because Shiro got himself tied up in knots about everything, whether he needed to or not.
> 
> While we were eating, Shiro’s Dad came home, all a bunch of sighs about the latest meeting he’d had regarding his Father’s affairs and clearing them up. Seeing me at the table with Shiro didn’t get him to do more than nod and ask how I was doing. I hadn’t planned on anybody else joining me and Shiro, but I’d made up a family-sized box of the noodles and heated up an oversized can of peas-and-carrots, because they were there and easy to find. So, once Shiro agreed that neither of us minded and that he hadn’t been the one cooking, Mr. Shirogane helped himself to dinner and an open seat. The small talk was mostly between me and him, probably because he could tell that the older of his sons was out-of-sorts, but that could only last so long. Aside from the fact that I’m horrible at small talk, Mr. Shirogane kept glancing at Shiro with great, unexplained significance.
> 
> “Kashi,” he eventually said. “Ryou seems to think that I need to ask you about a certain test in AP Calculus. Could you please explain?”
> 
> Shiro blanched and his fingers tightened around his spoon. “It was not that bad,” he said, quietly and toward the kitchen table, rather than looking at his Dad. “I mean, it wasn’t good, either? But on all of the practice exams, I’ve still been doing more than fine—”
> 
> “What kind of grade did you get, son?”
> 
> Mr. Shirogane did not sound upset about anything as he said that. More than anything else, he sounded resigned and exhausted, like he was fighting off a powerful impulse to sigh. Like he and Shiro had probably gone through variations on this exact same conversation so many times before and kept getting absolutely nowhere with it, no matter what Mr. Shirogane changed about his approach. When all Shiro did was shrug and silently push the noodles around his plate, Mr. Shirogane took off his silver wire-frame glasses and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. But no matter how frustrated he might’ve been getting, he still didn’t allow himself to sigh.
> 
> He said, “Kashi, your brother was exceptionally worried about you when I spoke to him, earlier. Your Mother and I have gotten concerned about you, as well. You’ve had trouble sleeping, all of those odd aches and pains… You’ve been feeling sick more often than usual and eating less…”
> 
> While Shiro hunched in toward the table like he was too ashamed of himself to even look his Dad in the eye, Mr. Shirogane frowned with one of the saddest expressions I’ve ever seen on anybody’s face, for any reason. Not that I had a translation guide for what it meant to him, but he looked like a man who wanted desperately to help but had no idea what the underlying problem was, much less what to do about it. “Kashi, you refusing to eat lunch because your nerves made you feel so ill that Ryou almost convinced you to skip class and rest? Is more than fair cause for concern. What kind of grade did you get?”
> 
> “Eighty-six percent, a B?” Shiro said it so softly, I was sitting next to him and barely heard it. I scooted closer to him still and squeezed his shoulder again, because it always made me feel a little better when Shiro did that, and if anybody needed comfort right now, it was definitely Shiro. After his Dad asked him to repeat the score, he finally looked up and started rattling off like, “I’m sorry, Dad — I swear, I wasn’t trying to slack off or anything — I don’t know what happened, but I’m already working on the corrections so it can’t throw off my final grade too badly, and my scores on the practice exams have all been…”
> 
> He trailed off in the face of his Dad holding up a hand.
> 
> I assumed this meant that Mr. Shirogane already knew what he wanted to say and how he wanted to say it, but it took him a moment before he said, “Son, that is not a bad grade, or one worth worrying yourself sick over. You have excelled in your class all year, while applying to colleges early, staying ahead of all your classes, keeping up with all of your extracurriculars, tutoring Keith, working on your music… And then, after we lost your Grandfather so suddenly? When you obviously have not been taking it well?”
> 
> Finally, as he put his glasses back on, Mr. Shirogane couldn’t help sighing. “You don’t need to break yourself in order to be perfect, Kashi. No one expects that of you and none of us wants that. Your health and wellbeing are more important than whether or not you got a B on one test. After everything you’ve been dealing with, I am in absolutely no way disappointed in you or that grade.”
> 
> If you’d asked me, I would’ve thought that this settled the matter, but Shiro didn’t un-tense at all. He forced a tight, wan smile for his Dad, and until Mr. Shirogane left to take a call in another room, Shiro made a point of eating as if he wanted to tell both of us how he had this and maybe he wasn’t fine right now, but he was working on it and getting there by himself. As soon as his Dad left the kitchen, though, Shiro shoved his plate away. There was still food left, but not so much that I thought he hadn’t eaten enough or that he was lying about being full. More worrying was the way he groaned and face-planted on the table, knocking his forehead against his arms. That would’ve at least raised an eyebrow on any other day, but for Shiro to do it now? After his Dad had outright told him that he wasn’t in any trouble over his grade on the test, which hadn’t even been a bad grade in the first place? I didn’t get it, but I figured that, if absolutely nothing else, I could keep rubbing Shiro’s shoulder and listen if he wanted to tell me anything.
> 
> I didn’t plan on saying anything, but Shiro made a sniffling noise that kicked my mouth back into gear: “Hey, I know I don’t? I mean, maybe I’m missing something but, like? Wasn’t it a good thing, what he just said? You’re not in trouble, right? And it sounded like your Dad was just worried like you might be sick?”
> 
> “He’s testing my commitment,” Shiro said. Even though he didn’t pick his head up, he spoke louder and more clearly than he had before, with his Dad still in the room. “Maybe he doesn’t mean it like that, but he wanted me to go to NASA as much as my Grandfather did, and with him gone now, I don’t know? They don’t believe I can ever…” Shiro tried to muffle the noise he made when he broke off that thought, but I could tell it was a sob and I only didn’t hug him because I didn’t know if I was allowed or not.
> 
> After a few moments, he picked up his head enough to look around the kitchen, and I presumed that he was looking for his Dad. Shiro scrubbed at his eyes, but he didn’t stop crying as he told me, “It’s not like I don’t get it, because I do? Mom putting us in piano lessons as kids was just… It was supposed to make us more well-rounded? But music is supposed to be the big childhood dream that you give up to go into something better, like being an astronaut. But then I did it the other way around instead, so it’s disappointing for him and that’s fine—”
> 
> “But he didn’t say anything about that, though?” I pointed out, tightening my grip on Shiro’s shoulder again but trying not to hurt him any. “He was talking about the calc test, right? That and how you haven’t been doing so well?” Which I couldn’t argue with and didn’t want to, not at all. As Shiro had tutored me, we’d gotten to see each other more often. While we still didn’t spend time together every day — for all he was still supposed to be Bryce’s friend instead of mine — I cared about him, and it would’ve been hard for anyone to miss how badly he’d been doing since burying his Grandfather.
> 
> “I don’t know,” Shiro admitted, after thinking about it for a bit. “Maybe you’re right and Dad only meant it that way, but…”
> 
> There was nowhere closer for me to scoot to him unless I wanted to just climb into his lap. As much as I’d get comfortable sitting there when we were older and living in Chicago, right that second, I was still twelve years old, fretting over my recently-turned-sixteen-year-old friend, who I thought was, like, really pretty but, unsure of what to do with those feelings, I assumed that I was only acknowledging objective reality. Water is wet, the sky is blue, bears shit in the woods, and Shirogane Takashi is one of the most beautiful members of Homo sapiens who has ever been or ever will be alive in both the history and future of our entire godforsaken species.
> 
> But in the meantime, I gave up on worrying about what I was or wasn’t allowed to do and nestled up to his side, putting my head down on his shoulder. Which was a little awkward for us at first, since he still wasn’t sitting up completely, but once he got what I was doing, Shiro sighed and straightened up. He wrapped an arm around my shoulders while letting me lean on his, and for a bit, we sat there so quietly that I could almost hear what was happening with his Dad’s call. I could make out Mr. Shirogane’s voice, but not the exact words that he was saying.
> 
> “Y’know, I almost thought I was getting my Grandfather to understand? Maybe not accept it or stop wishing I’d change my mind, but…” Whether I was allowed to hug him back or not, Shiro didn’t protest when I curled my arms around his waist. Good thing too, or so I thought, because this felt like the only thing that I could do for him at all. Squeezing me closer, he said, “A couple days before he died, I was getting ready to practice in my room. He knocks on the door and asks if he can listen. I didn’t know how I felt about it, but I let him… I thought he’d get bored and leave in the middle of my warm-ups? But he stuck around ’til Ryou came to get us for dinner…”
> 
> “What’d he say?” Whether or not I’d ever liked Shiro’s Grandfather, I knew how much something like this would’ve meant to him. Support from the old man could’ve encouraged him more and better than anything else, while criticism or disapproval could’ve had Shiro hating himself for months, only picking up his guitar because he had too many emotions that had no other outlet — or at least, no other outlet that worked as well for him as music did.
> 
> Shrugging gently, Shiro told me, “He asked if I’d written the first song that he didn’t recognize? I had, so he asked if it had lyrics and why wasn’t I singing them, because he knew that I can sing. I didn’t want to say that I’d started writing them after we’d had a disagreement, and I thought maybe he wouldn’t notice because they weren’t entirely about him anymore? But I think he did notice, but then he didn’t seem to mind? And before we went to dinner, I don’t know, he said he could see how much my music means to me, so I thought that maybe…”
> 
> Trying to say it again made him sigh, but I got the point, or at least I felt like I did. All Shiro wanted from his Dad and his Grandfather was to feel like they’d support him with his music, and getting any of that had been, at best, an uphill struggle. I didn’t know what to say, so I hugged him tighter and hoped that it might be enough. If not enough to fix everything — because obviously, it wasn’t — then enough to make him feel better, feel safer, feel like he had another person in his corner, if my support counted for anything.
> 
> Maybe I still didn’t know what I felt about him, beyond friendship and admiration, or exactly what it meant when I felt like he might’ve been the most beautiful human being ever. My feelings for him would definitely change, as time went on. But what I got out of the calc test incident was that Shiro needed someone else to protect him, and so help me, I wanted to be one of his top choices.
> 
> Later on, in Chicago, test scores were the impetus for another realization about the two of us and how I felt for him. Except in this case, the scores were mine and I didn’t walk into the scene in question knowing what they were. See, when I aged out of the foster system, my senior year of high school was only a third-or-so of the way done. I’d thought that, because my last foster family was actually pretty decent overall, maybe I could stay to finish out the year. Unfortunately, money was tighter with the Graysons than it had been at any of my other placements. They needed the stipends to keep us foster kids around and, without mine coming in anymore, they couldn’t afford to keep me and I didn’t get to finish high school in the conventional sense.
> 
> After I pulled the, “running out into a blizzard” stunt, Shiro and I worked out a compromise so that I wouldn’t feel so much like I was imposing on his hospitality or taking advantage of his kindness. He got enough money from his trust funds and monthly payouts that working at the used bookstore was something he did out of boredom more than actual necessity, but he still talked to his boss and netted me a job there. That way, I could chip in around the apartment while working to get my GED, and put money away so that I wouldn’t need Shiro to pay for everything when I hopefully started community college classes. It wasn’t quite what either of us wanted — in his ideal situation, I would’ve accepted his charity without being so difficult about it; in mine, he wouldn’t have offered in the first place so I wouldn’t have needed to refuse but I realize how stupid this is so you don’t need to tell me — but it was tolerable enough.
> 
> The day that my GED scores were supposed to come in, I had a shift at the bookstore but Shiro didn’t. When I got back late that afternoon, the mail wasn’t in yet, but Shiro was right where I expected him to be: sitting in the apartment’s main room, on the futon with his acoustic guitar. He and Mark had rescued the rickety coffee-table from either a pawn shop or a street corner (both of them told me each of those stories and by now, I’d given up on getting the truth). At the moment, it hosted his notebook of blank sheet music, the journal he was currently scribbling his lyrics in, a large glass of water, and the stress ball that he used as a makeshift resistance-trainer during the breaks he often took while playing. They were his least favorite part of practice, but a teacher he’d had while going to Columbia College had stressed the importance of taking them as part of keeping his hands healthy and strong. Breaks, as boring as Shiro found them, were supposedly as essential to maintaining his hands as moisturizing, trimming his nails, and filing the calluses he’d build up.
> 
> While I unloaded my jacket and griped about a customer who’d refused to believe that Harry Potter and the Pyramids of Furmat had only ever been a whack-job Internet hoax, Shiro switched from one of his older songs to a newer one that he’d been working on. Curling up in one of the common room chairs, I mostly tried not to watch how his fingers moved on the frets. Some people get sexually bothered about playing with someone’s hair, or kissing someone’s feet, or watching cute people eating chocolate cake. Increasingly, I got something hot and slick welling up in my throat, like a buildup of mucus that refuses to let you fucking breathe, and something sticky wrapping around the inside of my chest — and all of it, over Shiro’s hands and how deftly they flitted across the strings. Even doing my level-headed best to ignore any thoughts about crushing on him, I couldn’t shake myself free from thoughts about how beautiful his hands were and how skilled he was with them.
> 
> Cracking open my Coke, I told myself not to be ridiculous because there was nothing to get any kind of worked up about this was not the first time I’d watched him play. But as he kept playing, moving through three more of his own pieces with only one brief pause to adjust his tuning keys, I swallowed thickly on the wish that he’d caress my neck that gently, with even half as much love as he showed his instrument. I want to say that being jealous of Shiro’s guitar was a new low for me, but given how many times I’d caught myself thinking something similar, it wasn’t.
> 
> Neither was my inability to pick out a new song he started playing until, after strumming several bars and humming more to himself than me, he decided to sing, “Like a heartbeat drives you mad / In the stillness of remembering what you had / And what you lost / And what you had / And what you lost, oooo…”
> 
> “Oh, thunder only happens when it’s raining,” I joined in, because I knew Fleetwood Mac’s “Dreams.”
> 
> “Players only love you when they’re playing. / Say women, they will come and they will go,” we sang together. I was just singing how I remembered the tune going, but he adjusted and found the harmony for us. “When the rain washes you clean, you’ll know.”
> 
> He warbled, “Oh, you’ll knooow” on his own and shot me a look that fell halfway between a smile and a smirk, and it made me think that maybe he was playing while high — meaning that he’d taken more than his usual dosage, since by now, I’d figured out that Shiro was basically always high, depending on how you looked at things. Going solely by the amount of junk in his bloodstream at any given point, then yes, he was always intoxicated, but speaking practically, he needed a certain amount of that junk in order to be anything but a miserable, vomiting mess. An expression like the one he gave me before going through the second verse and another round of the chorus, it could’ve easily meant that he’d gone past his mark of, “functional and in as close as either of us ever got to something that passed for a decent state of mind.”
> 
> Except none of his pill bottles were on the table. Neither were his Altoids or anything alcoholic. Which I knew didn’t necessarily mean anything, but it gave me a bright spot of hope that I barnacled onto because fuck if I didn’t want something nice right then. A day of putting on my best customer service smile and I still had to wait for my GED scores? Maybe it was selfish and I should’ve entertained the possibility that he was more intoxicated than I thought, but when he was done with the song, he smiled at me more genuinely. Hearing why I wasn’t in the best of all possible moods, he focused better than I could manage while he was playing, and nothing about him seemed anything but clear as he set his guitar back in its case. He held out his hand to help me up, guessing that maybe both of us could do with a walk.
> 
> “I haven’t taken as many breaks as I should’ve done today,” he explained, shrugging his jacket on. “Got too wrapped up in things, I guess. Anyway, you’re gonna get lost in your own head and make yourself sick if we sit up here and wait for the mail.”
> 
> That latter point, I couldn’t argue with. The former one, I didn’t want to argue with, not if it meant that Shiro was going to do something in his own best interest without getting dragged into it for once.
> 
> Yeah, I knew that I hadn’t been around to witness whether or not things had really shaken out how Shiro said they did, but because I didn’t see any immediate reason for him to lie about that, I really, really hoped that he wasn’t. As I got my shoes back on and made sure that I had my keyring, I figured that he could have been lying to me, but only because all human beings have the capacity for that, all the time. Nothing about him seemed to indicate that, though, and with the way he made sure to tie one of his old scarves around my neck before letting us leave — “I know we’re getting close to spring, but it’s still cold, we don’t want you getting strep or something, right?” — I felt pretty certain that he wasn’t any more than, “whatever he needs to function” levels of intoxicated.
> 
> I don’t remember most of what we talked about while meandering around the neighborhood together and, unfortunately, I didn’t write most of it down, either. One high point that came up was how Ryou had been easier to get in touch with while doing his study abroad in Tokyo, the previous semester. Apparently, the final semester of his senior year was kicking his ass and, between that and some relatively new friend that Shiro hadn’t met yet, Ryou had been more MIA than MIT. Another was that Shiro hadn’t gotten caught up in anything too bad, or at least he didn’t feel like it had been terrible. Mostly, he’d had a lot of feelings and he guessed that he hadn’t quite addressed them like he needed to, and he’d lost track of time while alternately venting and distracting himself, figuring out some new tunes and arguing with new lyrics that didn’t want to come out exactly like he’d felt them in his heart, not even with revisions and experiments to make them better.
> 
> I wanted to push him more on that point, and I don’t know, maybe I should’ve? I felt like his choice in Fleetwood Mac couldn’t be anything but significant — largely because Shiro so often had a reason for picking out the cover songs he did — and I felt like probably, it had something to do with Maurice. But I also knew that I had no evidence of this, and worse, even suggesting that Maurice could’ve been bad news made Shiro clam up pretty quick. Implying that he had fuck-all to do with Shiro singing one of Stevie Nicks’s breakup songs for Lindsay Buckingham? Could’ve been the worst idea that I’d had all week. 
> 
> Yet another topic that we got onto during that walk was how Laura from back in Corpus Christi had decided to move to Canada with her girlfriend. If Shiro knew more details than that, he wasn’t sharing them, and that was fair enough, i guess. Not that Laura and I had ever disliked each other, but we’d only really spoken two or three times, maximum, back in the day. Moreover, she’d actually been Shiro’s friend, while I’d been, “that ratty kid who Shiro tutors and maybe likes more than he likes Bryce.” But whatever, the gist of what he shared was that Laura and her girlfriend, Maddie, were swinging by Chicago in the next couple weeks to pay him a visit while heading up to British Columbia. I wish I remembered exactly what the fuck I said about Canada being a great frozen wasteland that I couldn’t imagine living in, because apparently — or at least according to my journal — Shiro thought that it was pretty funny.
> 
> “You’d probably enjoy it more than you think,” I remember him telling me, hugging me around the shoulders while we waited at a crosswalk. “Sure, it’s cold, but so is Chicago. And you actually like being out in nature. If we got you a heavy enough coat, you could make it work.”
> 
> “Are you gonna come visit me at my ramshackle Canadian Thoreau recluse hut?” I said, leaning into his chest and side while looking kitty-corner at the window of a local flower shop. “Because I can’t talk to animals, last I checked. I’m open to trying? But I’d feel way less crazy if you just humored me and paid regular visits instead of making me befriend a wolverine and call him Hugh and talk to him about my feelings like he gives a shit.”
> 
> It took Shiro a second to get the joke. That also could’ve meant he was high, but in fairness to him, I’d said it without any adornment or changes in my cadence, and there wasn’t a punchline in the conventional sense. I was just naming the hypothetical wolverine, “Hugh” because of how Hugh Jackman played Logan “Wolverine” Howlett in the X-Men movies. In further fairness, Shiro liked those movies well enough, but his favorite part was Sir Ian McKellen playing Magneto. But once Shiro caught up to what I’d been angling at, he snorted appreciatively and laughed, all the way to the other side of the street and halfway down the next block, too. I ducked my head closer to his shoulder, expecting him to try mussing up my hair and preemptively trying to get out of the way. But he didn’t even make a move for that. At the next crosswalk that held us up, he only chuckled and nuzzled at my forehead.
> 
> “I don’t know why you try to play it like you aren’t funny,” he said. “Acting serious all the time like you have no sense of humor…”
> 
> Part of me wanted to point out that some of Shiro’s own attempts jokes simply didn’t amuse me, because if they weren’t cringe-worthy puns then the alleged punchline was almost definitely about him devaluing himself or wanting to die.
> 
> But the more dominant, reptilian-brained, selfish asshole part didn’t want a nice, distracting afternoon walk to get fucked up by me making everything miserable, so all I did was shrug and tell him, “Most people only get all tickled over SNL skits where the whole point is Andy Samberg being as loud and annoying as possible. Or the great poetic genius of, ‘Jizz In My Pants.’ That’s their whole idea of comedy, that’s literally it. Why would I want to share my sense of humor with an audience that I know won’t appreciate it.”
> 
> Shiro hummed and considered that. “Well, I guess it’s nice to be special for something.”
> 
> See, that’s exactly what I’m talking about when I say that Shiro’s own sense of humor was often questionable, at best. He huffed and quirked his lips like this was supposed to be witty, and when I frowned up at him, he had no idea why. I had to spell it out for him: “But you are special, though. Not at something, or anything, or not for a particular reason, like? Being special’s not something you can turn off, Shiro. You just are.”
> 
> True, it wasn’t the best explanation ever, but based on the small smile, I guessed that Shiro got what I meant. Most of what I meant, anyway, because I sure as Hell hoped that he didn’t pick up on the, “You’re always special to me” that was best kept to my-goddamn-self.
> 
> Whatever he felt I meant by it, though, he curled his arm around my waist, holding me like I was special too. Almost like how a real boyfriend was supposed to hold you. Even if I knew that I couldn’t truly entertain the thought or let it hang around my mind for long enough to admit how much I liked it, the fact is that I did enjoy it. By now, the sunlight was almost dead, so we headed for the apartment. The whole way there, I didn’t fight Shiro about holding me, but kept telling myself that this wasn’t real and it couldn’t last. He was probably only trying to be reassuring because he knew what the GED scores meant to me and how I’d likely take it if I’d failed, or worse, if I had to wait another day to see them.
> 
> When we got back, we found the mail waiting for us in the box, with the envelope addressed to me from the Cook County High School Equivalency Records Office. Thank God or whatever for Shiro tugging at my elbow because otherwise, we might’ve been stuck out there all night while I stared at that envelope and clenched onto it for dear life. Once he brought me back, though, I rushed up the stairs. I had to wait for him when I got to our door, bouncing on the balls of my feet and completely incapable of finding my own key. It hadn’t wiggled off my keyring or wormed out of my hip pocket, but as I palmed around my wallet and spare pens, I kept coming up with nothing.
> 
> I found more nothing when Shiro let us into the apartment. Dropping the rest of the mail on the kitchen table was easy enough. But as I kept staring down the envelope, I couldn’t understand why it didn’t simply open itself for me, because I couldn’t remember how to make my fingers work. I gasped when Shiro squeezed my shoulder and reminded me how the worst case scenario was that I wound up retaking one of the tests, and if it came to that, he’d help me pay for it. He’d help me study all over again, and we’d figure out what hadn’t worked out, this time so we could fix up our approach and get me better scores, like he knew that I deserved.
> 
> Another squeeze and I ripped the envelope open. I gasped when I saw the scores and nearly dropped the letter explaining what they meant and how to get an official transcript sent to any schools that I applied to or prospective employers who requested it. Not only had my fear of failure been unfounded after all, I’d done well enough for some schools to give me credits. The letter made no promises about who would or wouldn’t do so, but it didn’t matter. While I stood there in shock, Shiro leaned around me to see the results for himself.
> 
> “Keith, that’s amazing,” he said, hugging me around the shoulders. “I knew that you could do it, and look—”
> 
> Whatever else he wanted to say, Shiro got cut off. By me. Specifically, by me shoving my mouth against his mouth, yanking him down with my arms behind his neck and leaning up to meet him halfway.
> 
> Last time I’d sprung a kiss on him out of nowhere like this, he’d sighed into it, the same way that he did now. But this time, Shiro didn’t push me off. Instead, he tilted his head to get a better angle for leaning in deeper, and let me back him up until his head knocked against one of the kitchen cabinets. When I clung limpet-tightly to his chest, he wrapped his arms around my waist like he was holding onto something precious. Not breakable, exactly, and definitely not fragile — his embrace was a few shades too tense and firm for that, like maybe he was afraid of me trying to run out to the park again and never coming back. In retrospect, I appreciate that he didn’t feel a need to walk on eggshells while getting so entwined in each other.
> 
> But however Shiro meant it, he still folded me in his arms like maybe I was someone special and important who he didn’t want to lose. As he coaxed his tongue past my lips, as he sucked like he couldn’t breathe without borrowing all the air that I had in me, I let myself believe that I wasn’t wrong for feeling like that. For feeling like maybe this could mean something more than two non-romantic friends kissing in the heat of the moment.
> 
> In fairness, I was right about that feeling, but not in the way I wanted.
> 
> I only jerked away from him when my lungs started getting pissed off about that breathing thing like they really needed fucking oxygen. Like it could ever be more important than kissing Shiro felt at that moment. But all the same, I didn’t pull back so much as rested against him, catching my breath but refusing to move, not when everything felt so right with his arms around me and our chests pressed together and his forehead nudging mine.
> 
> I even would’ve said that it felt perfect, until he laughed breathlessly against my lips. “Got a little excited there, Ace?”
> 
> Nodding knocked my forehead into his and rubbed our noses together awkwardly, but if the way he tucked a piece of hair behind my ear was any indication, Shiro didn’t seem to mind too much. My cheeks flushed hot as I agreed that maybe I’d gone and done that, yeah, but I could stop that if he didn’t like it. Except that he did like it, or that’s what he told me, and when one of his arms curled around me tighter, I didn’t want to move away from him, no matter what, so help me God. Not even with his little chuckle feeling like a reminder that however I felt about him wasn’t part of what we’d agreed to and no matter what I thought was going on, he didn’t love me back.
> 
> I caught up to my own brain while taking in a long look at his soft, grey eyes and gentle smile.
> 
> When I leaned up for another kiss, I felt my heart plummeting into my stomach and one of his hands grabbing onto my ass. So I moaned into his mouth, maybe a bit more intensely than was necessary, but it got him to buck his hips up against mine, so I didn’t care what I sounded like. I would’ve whined for his cock like some twinky pillow princess bottom in a no-budget D-list porno if Shiro wanted, as long as it kept us pressed against each other for as much time as he would give me. I wouldn’t have liked doing that very much, so I’m glad that Shiro didn’t want it. But right that second, the only things keeping me from getting lost in my own thoughts were kissing Shiro and making whatever sounds I thought might encourage him to keep groping me. I couldn’t afford to disappear up my own head, not with so much riding on the promise that was so close to cracking into pieces.
> 
> As he rubbed at my erection through my jeans, I knew how screwed I was. Looking up at Shiro’s playful smirk, I couldn’t focus on what his hand was doing unless he applied more pressure. Even then, it faded out so quickly, leaving me with one thought only, repeating in sync with the motions of my lips as I tugged him down again, drumming in time my idiotic heartbeat as he hoisted my legs up to his waist and carried us to his bedroom: “I love you, I love you, I love you…”

*** * ***

Fortunately, the universe seems to cut Keith some slack after he finishes breakfast and Coran lets him head out and get back to work. It’s a nice day, so for a while, Keith kicks back underneath the hawthorn tree outside Montgomery Hall with a mind to write. That seems to be the only snag, for now, and an inability to focus properly is probably what Keith gets for thinking that he could sit here without dwelling on making out with Shiro more than writing about that. Once he moves to one of the oaks along the quad, though, the words come from Keith’s pen as if he’s been possessed by the same word-vomiting spirit that may or may not have tortured Dostoevsky.

Which goes well enough for a while, until reality decides to remind Keith that it exists. Even that, however, goes so easily that he lets himself accept it because fuck it, Keith could use a break right now. Faced with a building hand-cramp and an empty thermos, he moves into Java Hut next. Forks over enough for a super-sized black coffee, a second one to refill the thermos, and a chocolate scone, then settles into one of the tables where he, Allura, and Shay usually meet for breakfast. Yeah, Keith may not be hungry enough for lunch right now, but for one thing, he can’t ignore his own need for food, then complain all up and down this essay about Shiro’s shitty eating habits and his periodic shittier lack thereof. Technically, he _could_ , but even if he never takes Shiro up on his offer and lets him read this garbage, Keith wouldn’t feel _good_ about it.

For another thing, though, Keith got the second-to-last chocolate scone. While it’s unlikely that the Java Hut staff won’t put out more, eventually, it’s so much better to snag one now and pick at it than to risk not getting any. He’s getting back into a comfortable groove when someone loudly clears their throat above his head. When Keith doesn’t glance up at them, they try again, and then another time. Keith tightens his hold on his pen and keeps pressing forward with his work, letting the instrument dig into his fingers while his knuckles get whiter from the strain. Whoever wants his attention huffs, rapping a pale brown fist on Keith’s table.

“Stop acting as though you cannot hear me,” they say, and Keith clenches his jaw, hoping he’s wrong about who’s speaking to him. “Street rat.”

Groaning, Keith rolls his eyes and grimaces up at this human headache. “Prince Loser.”

“Ah, yes, an insult that I have _never_ heard before,” Lotor deadpans, arching an inscrutable, manicured eyebrow as if Keith’s supposed to be intimidated by him. “How _terribly_ clever of you.”

“I _know_ , right? It’s almost as good as being told your nickname for me is a ripoff job, then continuing to use it anyway.” Keith shrugs. He’s wasted too much breath on this obnoxious prick and probably given him far too much to work with. What Keith _needs_ to do is nip this in the bud. But what he _does_ is explain, “I mean, I was gonna call you, ‘Purple Rain’ because of your hair. But then I thought, ‘Oh no, Keith, don’t do that. Maybe it isn’t your _favorite_ Prince song, but he doesn’t deserve to be associated with this weirdo. Also, Shiro’s stupid ex doesn’t deserve you actually trying to be witty.’ Which you really, _really_ don’t. I save my best efforts for opponents who _challenge_ me.”

And Lance, but to be fair, he’s a challenge in his own _unconventional_ way. Lotor, on the other hand, is merely an annoyance.

Unfortunately, today, he decides to be an annoyance who settles into the chair opposite Keith as if he’s actually been invited, pulling back his ponytail so it won’t get caught between his back and the chair. In perfect silence, he takes a long sip of his coffee, watching Keith with an idle curiosity that makes him think Lotor might’ve spent his childhood setting ants on fire with a magnifying glass. If he didn’t do that literally, then Keith would bet money that Lotor did whatever the obscenely wealthy douchebag equivalent of it is. Clearly, he thinks that he stands to get something out of sitting with Keith. Or maybe he doesn’t, since Keith’s apparently been wrong about more things than he expected lately, but if Lotor isn’t trying to get something, then Keith has no idea what’s going on between them, much less Lotor won’t just leave him alone.

Well, whatever Lotor thinks his game is, Keith isn’t going to give him the satisfaction of a verbal acknowledgment. He lets himself arch an eyebrow at the t-shirt under Lotor’s trench-coat — black and maybe a size-and-a-half too small for him, with a screenprinted picture of a busty, hyper-feminine blonde grinding on a muscular brunette in a leather jacket and a sweaty tank-top; if it weren’t titled _Muffy the Vampire Layer_ , Keith would believe it’s from a real vintage erotic novel — but that is all he’s going to get. Even when Lotor starts idly kicking at Keith’s ankle, it’s more like a kitten playing with a piece of string, barely hard enough to merit Keith holding this fucking guy accountable. Hell, Keith might even guess that Lotor is so far up his own ass that he legitimately doesn’t notice kicking someone’s ankle multiple times in a row, if not for the slight-but-still-discernible smirk curling up Lotor’s lips and the fact that Keith doesn’t particularly enjoy extending the benefit of the doubt to people who he hates.

Maybe it’s morally wrong to hate Lotor without knowing him, but that’s okay. Keith’s been morally wrong about worse things before than a commitment to hating Shiro’s ex. Anyway, Lotor’s annoying, and the sooner Keith ignores him into submission, the better.

Keith intends to stick to his guns and focus on his writing until Lotor gets the point and leaves. Maybe he’s let Lotor get his foot in the door, but Keith can still have this end in his favor. As if on cue, though, “Rocket Man” ends and after a second’s pause, a too-familiar _ah dunt dunt!_ blasts through the coffee-shop. The volume’s not even cranked that high and Keith knows that, because Java Hut’s managers don’t let the employees play the music too loudly, but the synthesized music sure _sounds_ louder than normal. So does Marc Almond’s voice as he starts droning, _“Sometiiiiiimes, I feel I’ve got to run away / I’ve got to get away”_ — Keith rolls his eyes and sneers at the nearest speaker, hung over in the corner. Inanimate object or not, it can stomach being glared at as punishment for playing, “Tainted Love” while Keith’s being forced to either give up his table or deal with Lotor.

True to form, Lotor smirks as if he’s gained an edge. “What? You don’t like the music?”

“I like Soft Cell fine. Or I like this song and, ‘Sex Dwarf’ anyway.” Granted, Keith is mostly fond of the latter because it’s so ridiculous and there are some choice people from his life who might literally die from how much it offends their moral sensibilities. But for now, he rests his face on his palm and makes himself keep staring at his notebook and not at Lotor, drumming his pen on the page and wishing that he could keep a rhythm to save anybody’s life. He thinks the whole point of torturing someone with repetitive sounds relies on them sticking to a pattern, but as long as it sounds annoying, Keith doesn’t care.

If he really wants this to be over with, he probably shouldn’t keep talking, and yet: “Both songs are better when the company isn’t quite so _horrible_ , but maybe that’s not your fault, y’know? I mean, if you’re bad enough to make _Shiro_ call you an asshole, then maybe you just can’t help being such a fucking drag.”

Lotor can’t keep his whole face from lighting up as he drawls, “Funny that you should mention _Shiro_ —”

“Yeah, I know, Lance said the exact same thing to me two days ago.” In the face of Lotor scowling like he can’t believe that someone _dared_ to interrupt him, Keith shrugs and deigns to look him in the eye, just so Lotor can see exactly how _unimpressed_ he is.

“Perhaps he did,” Lotor says, cheeks flushing slightly. “But as you see, I am not _Lance_ —”

“Yeah, I know. Because Lance is tolerable sometimes, and Shiro actually likes having him around.”

“I simply asked about the music because I thought that it might be awkward for you, sitting here with me and listening to, ‘Tainted Love’…” Something glints in his eyes that doesn’t quite fit with the too-easy way that Lotor shrugs. “Considering that this is one of mine and Shiro’s songs — at least, of those that we did not write for each other.”

“Are you _serious_?” Keith doesn’t mean to gape at Lotor, largely because he doesn’t want to give the smug piece of shit that much attention, but he can’t completely help it. “Dude, why are you _bragging_ about that? Have you ever _listened_ to this song?”

“Of course I have.” Exactly where does Lotor get off frowning over the lid on his coffee like Keith is the one who’s crazy? Maybe Keith isn’t exactly stable, but at least he’s not the one who is sitting here and completely missing the point of a song he claims to love. “It’s a wonderful song, street rat. A classic, even. Why _wouldn’t_ I be pleased to share it with Shiro?”

“It’s about a relationship that’s turning _toxic_ , moron!” Snapping like this is more effort than Lotor deserves, but for fuck’s sakes, Keith doesn’t _want_ to help himself right now. Not when this guy is talking about his relationship with Shiro and acting like _“Tainted Love” of all the goddamn songs_ means that he and Shiro were _happy_ together. “How can you miss that? ‘The pain you drive in the heart of me’? ‘Don’t touch me, please. I cannot stand the way you tease’? It isn’t _subtle_.”

“But the lyric after that is, ‘I love you though you hurt me so,’” Lotor points out. “I think that’s a powerful statement.”

“Well, gosh darnit, aren’t you a catch. I cannot _imagine_ why Shiro ever let you go.”

God, Keith hopes that his smirk is coming across as harshly as he wants it to. But despite the part of him that’s screaming to shut up and stop rising to anything resembling bait, Keith huffs and instead of waiting to get Lotor’s foot batting at him again, he kicks Lotor in the shin — not hard enough to really _hurt_ , but definitely hard enough to get the bastard’s attention and make it clear that Keith’s kicking was no accident.

“So, let me guess what’s on your mind, hmm, Lotor?” With a huff, Keith props himself on his elbows, even if this means he has to look up at Lotor. Before he can even get it in his mind to speak up again, Keith tells him, “You and Shiro dated. He dumped your ass. You want him but he doesn’t want you. Based on last weekend, you’ve gotten this ridiculous notion in your pretty little head that he wants _me_ —”

“You _did_ seem to advocate a similar position, _Keith_.” Lotor says his name like a kid spitting out his vegetables.

“And you wanted to fuck my drunk ass senseless until you thought I was eyeballing Shiro too hard. Everybody makes mistakes.”

Which includes all of Keith’s claims that Shiro was looking at him throughout any particular songs, but he mostly made those to get under Lotor’s skin. Just like he hopes he’s doing as he says, “Look, I don’t know what you think your deal is, but I’ve met tons of guys like you. You’re good-looking and intelligent enough — bullshit opinions about ‘Tainted Love’ notwithstanding — but most of all, you’re _charming_. Flash a smile, throw out some twenty-five-dollar GRE study guide words, and people fall all over themselves to give you _whatever_ you want. So, you can’t deal with Shiro refusing to be your _pet_ or your goddamn _arm candy_ , and you wanna make it everybody else’s problem, too. How am I doing, Prince Loser. Pretty accurate, right.”

“Ugh, you argue like a _Galra_.” When Keith frowns at this, Lotor rolls his eyes, shakes his cowlick and his ponytail, and explains, “My Father’s family is Galra, street rat. I am _allowed_ to say that your style of interpersonal argument reminds me of holidays with _his_ relatives — save for the notable exception that you do not appear to come from much. Financially speaking, I mean to say.”

“For the love of fuck, can you not just _say_ that I look like a broke college student. Or are you getting paid by the word, Darles Chickens?” _Wait, shit, that isn’t right_ … Worse, Lotor is making a face like he’s trying so hard not to laugh, and Keith doesn’t know what’s worse: that expression or the threat of being openly mocked. Grinding his thumb along the side of his fist, Keith snaps, “ _Charles Dickens!_ I meant to say, ‘Charles Dickens,’ okay? Now stop fucking _leering_ at me.”

“Oh, darling, you would _know_ if I were leering at you,” Lotor says, and something hungry glimmers in his eyes.

Rolling his eyes, Keith huffs. “Fuck off. I don’t _want_ to know what it looks like.”

“Are you certain of that?” That tight, teasing, twisted-up smile makes Keith want to punch Lotor, but in fairness, so does almost everything that Lotor does or says. “Because you _could_ have simply left, and I cannot help but think that, if you _truly_ didn’t want to speak with me? You would have done so. Someone who can throw back four shots of Patrón _Añejo_ as if it’s nothing to push me away does not _idly_ suffer the company of someone in whom he has no interest.”

“I was here first,” Keith points out. “ _You_ should be the one who’s leaving.” And that should be all. He should leave well enough alone, the same way that he keeps wanting Lance to do. But Keith tacks on, “Besides, you’re irritating, but I’ve dealt with _monsters_ who make you look like child’s play.”

“Oh, I believe that I would _love_ playing with you, Keith,” he says, lowering his voice just enough that Keith has to lean in to hear what he’s saying clearly. “But there would be _nothing_ about it fit for _children_.”

All of a sudden, they’re back to how he purred when he still thought that he was gonna get himself a dive bar restroom quickie with an apparently attractive street rat. Expression shifting to a small grin that’s simultaneously softer and more determined, Lotor leans down, not quite to Keith’s level but that might be hard with the difference between their heights. The way his eyes glint as he rests his chin on his palm fills Keith with the distinct impression that he could all too easily find himself devoured if he lets this go on too much longer. At the very least, he might be in over his head. Maybe he ought to listen to Kolivan’s piece of wisdom, from back before Keith got his Change of Advisor form signed: _Sometimes, the greatest challenge is knowing when to stop_.

But instead, Keith straightens up, ever-so-slightly, forcing himself not to look away from the bridge of Lotor’s nose, since that trick _works_ and meeting his eyes for real might turn Keith’s stomach and ruin everything. He shouldn’t give Lotor _any_ of this attention, but if he’s going to do it anyway, then he is _not_ going to let Lotor win.

“How do you say, ‘Fuck off’ in Galran?” Keith snarls. “Since I guess you don’t understand it in English?”

Lotor arches both eyebrows. “I can think of several _better_ ways to apply the word, ‘Fuck’ to our current situation.”

Before Keith can figure out his next jab, though, Lotor huffs in amusement. “Why _are_ you so hung up on Shiro, darling?” he says and Keith has to bite back the shiver that runs through him. “Of course, he has more than his fair share of charms and I hardly blame you for appreciating them. But if you truly wanted someone serious, then _you and I_ could strike something up instead. Something that Shiro could _never_ —”

Behind Keith, someone clears their throat. A heavy hand drops onto Keith’s shoulder, too close to his neck for comfort. As he swallows a gasp, Lotor snaps into perfect posture. His lips fall back into a thin, pursed line, and his fingers crunch in on his biodegradable cup and holder. Without trying to nudge the hand away, Keith turns in his seat. The color drains from his face as he looks up at Dr. Iverson, with his dark, cool brown skin, his always-impeccable posture, and his missing eye that’s scarred over. If not for him patting Keith’s shoulder, Keith would sit up straighter, too. As much as he hated dealing with the man as a professor, there’s something about him that always makes Keith want to stand at attention.

“Keith,” he says, resting his hand on Keith’s shoulder. “Sorry for being late to meet you. We got held up at a faculty lunch.”

For a hot second, Keith can only blink at him. But when Iverson nods, he finds his voice again: “No, no big deal, sir. I was just… Having my coffee. Working on this piece I’m writing for Dr. Ryner. Nowhere else to be today…”

Not that he can argue when Iverson is giving him such a convenient way out of this conversation? But Keith forces a wobbly smile at the man in the hopes that he’ll inspire Dr. Iverson to chime in on making up this lie. Whatever he’s planning, he turns his inscrutable gaze on Lotor next and narrows it. They trade names by way of a greeting — which is confusing in and of itself, even before considering how Lotor calls him, _“Doctor Iverson”_ instead of by his given name or a demeaning nickname — and Iverson huffs at Lotor’s half-baked, shit-eating grin.

“So, how do you know Keith?” Iverson says, voice gruffer than usual.

“Call him a friend of a friend.” Lotor folds his hands on the table. His foot knocks against Keith’s leg again, but this time, it _is_ an accident. He keeps hitting at different points and the motions feel more like agitated bouncing. “How do _you_ know Keith, sir?”

“He’s a _student_. One who I’m meeting with now, if you wouldn’t mind.” There shouldn’t be a question there, but when Lotor squints like actually, he _does_ mind, Iverson sighs. “I saw your _mother_ at the faculty lunch. She mentioned that you’re coming by to see her today.”

That, finally, makes Lotor falter. Not just _stumble_ over an unexpected turn, but reel as if someone’s punched him. He goes paler than Keith would’ve guessed he could and clamps his hands around each other so tightly, his white knuckles could be from bone cutting through the skin.

While Lotor’s at a loss for what to say, Iverson tacks on, “She did _not_ seem to have much in the way of patience.”

With that said, Lotor clears out so fast, he nearly trips himself on his stupid trench-coat. Keith knows he shouldn’t gape, but he hasn’t done most of what he should so far today, so it’s probably not much difference, staring out the window as Lotor’s ponytail retreats toward the quad. When Keith settles back into his seat, Dr. Iverson’s taken Lotor’s previous place, but why… _Oh, right. We should maintain the illusion. Just in case_ — what they’re heading off by doing this, Keith couldn’t guess. But as he sits up straighter than he likes at present, he sighs and picks at his scone and tries to think of something he can tack onto his, _“Thank you for that, sir.”_ True, he owes Iverson at least that much, right now, but Keith should have more to tell him, shouldn’t he?

“At ease, Keith,” Iverson mutters. He waits for Keith to sigh in relief and slouch before asking, “So, how do you _really_ know Lotor?”

“‘Friend of a friend’ wasn’t _wrong_?” Keith doesn’t want to sigh again, but fuck, Lotor might’ve taken more out of him than he expected. Leaning more heavily on his elbows, he forces a weak smile up at Iverson and explains, “There’s this guy?”

“The Shiro person he mentioned?” Iverson quirks the eyebrow over his bad eye, and Keith wishes he knew what that meant.

Nodding, Keith says, “I knew him before I came here. We got back in touch recently, and I don’t know? I guess that he and Lotor dated in the time that me and Shiro spent apart?” He isn’t trying to frown, but there’s something like recognition on Iverson’s face and Keith wishes he could put more effort into smiling. Maybe he’s totally misreading whatever Iverson’s face is trying to tell him, and the professor is confused.

Either way, Keith’s explained himself, so he’s allowed to ask, “How do you know Lotor’s _mother_ , sir?”

There’s no mistaking the disgust in Iverson’s scowl. “Honerva. Head of the chemistry department.” At Keith’s noise of utter confusion — he doesn’t know much about Honerva in real life but what he’s heard doesn’t make him see her as someone who would’ve ever had children — Iverson only shrugs. “He was a student of mine once, too. Infinitely more frustrating than you were.”

Without thinking, Keith falls back on a script: “Yeah, I’m sorry about that, sir—”

“No, you aren’t, Keith.” The bluntness takes Keith off-guard, but the faint upward quirk of Iverson’s lips is even more befuddling. “You’re _grateful_ that I came and made Lotor leave, but you don’t regret what you did as my student. I don’t expect you to, either. Not after all the effort you put into it.”

“Well…” Keith starts, then huffs and blows at a stray piece of his hair. As it flops down and makes Keith push it back off of his eyes, he admits, “Yeah, I’m not sorry. About any of that. It just kinda felt like… I don’t know? Like I _should_ apologize?”

“I’d rather you didn’t. If you’re in the mood to respect me, don’t pretend to be someone you’re not.” Once he has Keith’s nod of confirmation, he adds, “Anyway, I only said Lotor was worse than you because it was an _easy_ comparison. You at least had a point to everything you did and put effort into the work, if not the class itself. _Lotor_ had potential like you but put in next to no effort, and trying to ever hold him _accountable_ for that was…”

The way he groans tells Keith all he needs to know, but he still offers up, “Thought he could get away with murder because his mother is the Head of…” That trails off as a thought smacks into Keith, and he blurts out, “Wait, does that mean he’s Dean Zarkon’s _son_?”

Keith’s never met Honerva, but he’s heard stories about her being a proper horror-show to deal with and quite possibly being drunk while teaching. The only time he ever saw her was last spring, when Kolivan _seriously suggested_ that Keith make an appearance at a party after Thace made tenure, in the tone of voice that meant skipping would’ve earned his concern and disappointment. Keith thought the party was only going to be full of people from the history and philosophy departments. But Dean Zarkon made an appearance with a cold, tawny-skinned and white-haired woman on his arm, and Kolivan identified her as Honerva, the chemistry department’s own personal Baba Yaga, and Dean Zarkon’s wife.

Iverson grimaces and shrugs again. “I’m afraid you’re right,” he says. “Which only made Lotor worse to deal with.”

“God, I can imagine…” Not that Keith wants to, but as he slumps back against his seat, the thought of Lotor as a student nags at the back of his mind. Finally picking up his pen again, he sighs. “Somehow, I’m feeling like, ‘real piece of work’ might be a freaking _understatement_ …”

Vaguely, Keith thinks Iverson might be smiling as he says, “Calling it an understatement is the _real_ understatement.”

*** * ***

> Maybe life would be easier for everyone if monsters made themselves obvious from the outset. The way that I heard from Shiro, Maurice had never seemed exactly kind but that hadn’t been what Shiro wanted from him. Initially, he hadn’t even wanted to get to know Maurice well enough to care whether he was kind or not. They’d first met shortly after Shiro turned eighteen, out on the town, some two or maybe three nights before Shiro flew back down to Corpus Christi for his sophomore-year spring break. Hunching toward Shiro in the bar’s dim lighting, Maurice had seemed slightly shorter than he did at the hotel room in the light of day, but Shiro hadn’t thought it made too much difference if Maurice was six-foot-six or not. It wouldn’t have mattered if Maurice had wound up being some hideous ogre, that first morning after.
> 
> “I didn’t think I’d ever see him again. Just a one-night stand with an older guy, right?” Shiro told me, explaining part of the story following this one incident, shortly after the twins’ twenty-second birthday, when Maurice had almost sprained Shiro’s left wrist. That would’ve fucked up his playing, his writing, and his ability to do most things that needed manual dexterity, and while I took the almost as an indication that Maurice had known what he was doing, Shiro took it as a sign that things had accidentally gone too far.
> 
> When I asked how a one-night stand had spiraled into whatever the past four years had been between them, Shiro shrugged. “We kept running into each other, y’know? Not that often and not on purpose, but sometimes? We just found each other. And he was hot, he was good in bed, he’s an ADA and I thought that was cool? Then he was so much softer when I found him after my parents died, so? I gave him my number. I thought there was more to him than I’d seen, and he got me out of my own head better than any other guy I’d been with…”
> 
> He didn’t explain what that meant, but after just over three months in Chicago, I had some kind of idea. Boundaries were something that I wanted to respect with Shiro, but little things that I noticed added up. Sometimes, Shiro wore a black faux-leather collar choker out to the club, and if you yanked him around by the stainless steel O-ring, he’d get this eager smirk and give you a breathy gasp or a yearning whine. On his bookshelves, you could find erotic selections like Bound By Love: Stories of Bondage and Submission, All Tied Up (a sizable anthology of gay bondage short fiction), and For Him Who Restricts Me (a novel). Even in totally non-sexual ways and contexts, you could find clues: the way that Shiro bit his lip over Christian Bat-Bale beating the Hell out of Heath Ledger’s Joker in The Dark Knight, or how he sometimes blushed and mumbled that he wouldn’t have minded Heath-Joker putting a knife against his own throat; how he couldn’t watch most scenes of people being tied up or choked without inhaling sharply, at some point; the way something sparked up behind his eyes when someone told him to shut up and he told them, “Make me…”
> 
> Then, of course, you had the bruises, scabs, or bite marks that he didn’t mind letting people see. Sure, he tried to cover them at work, for the sake of propriety, or at the club, in case some guy he was into got turned off by them. But some of the markings that Maurice left on Shiro did not strike him as particularly troublesome. More than once, he told me that he’d, “Been asking for it” about some injury, only to clarify that he didn’t mean Maurice had hurt him and blamed Shiro for it, but that Shiro had, “been a brat” and, “egged him on,” hoping Maurice would get more intensely physical with him and leave Shiro with a mark that he’d feel for the next few days, at least. Other wounds, he was less forthcoming about, which concerned me, even before the night about a week after my nineteenth birthday, when he came home with a stitch-job on his right shoulder that looked so questionable, the most reassurance that he’d been able to give me was that Haxus had made sure to sterilize it before patching Shiro up. He thought that I should’ve found comfort in the story of how he’d gotten it — “Maurice wanted to see how far he could push me before I safe-worded out or screamed” — but I didn’t.
> 
> Maybe we hadn’t yet put it in the clearest or the most explicit terms, by that conversation in mid-March of 2012, but I knew enough to suspect that Shiro got turned on by being dominated in the bedroom. That he got off on submitting to a partner who could push Shiro’s limits, order him around, and subject him to all kinds of possible games or feats of physical and/or mental endurance, who could, “punish” Shiro in myriad agreed-upon fashions if Shiro ever broke one of their rules, got “bratty,” disobeyed, and so on.
> 
> When I finally asked about it outright, I was sick and miserable, hating how I felt on the single hit of Vicodin that he’d shared and letting him pet my hair and cuddle me through it. Although he got a bit tense at first, Shiro denied nothing. After he got me calmed down from rabbit-holing myself with all kinds of worries that maybe the bruises he didn’t like to talk about had been self-inflicted, maybe he really did need help (“Not like necessarily a shrink b’cause they’re useless, but I don’t know, are you okay, Shiro? I don’t feel like you’re okay”), maybe he’d been in trouble all this time and I hadn’t paid enough attention to notice, the fuck what kind of friend was I, if I hadn’t even spotted that he’d been digging himself into a self-harm-flavored ditch when we saw each other every day…?
> 
> Well, first, he had to hold me while I cried it out, but once I had, he explained that I’d been more or less correct in guessing about what sexually got him off. The biggest places where I’d missed something were the ones with nuances that he wouldn’t expect me to know about BDSM, and it was probably for the best that he didn’t explain those until I sobered up. Once he spelled those fine distinctions for me, I concluded something else. Namely: Maurice really didn’t seem to give a fuck about the, “mutual respect” part of how BDSM was supposed to work, and he cared even less about respecting Shiro.
> 
> But had I mentioned that to Shiro, at the time, he could’ve fairly pointed out that I’d never met Maurice and so I didn’t really know. That’s what he’d said while refusing my idea of establishing a safe-word between the two of us (“Not for our sex, I mean? You can just keep telling me outright when you don’t want to? But something you can say if you’re ever in over your head with Maurice and you need me to help you out”). Never having met Maurice meant that my opinions of him didn’t really count for much. They were based in judgment rather than deduction, secondhand intel and my own preconceived ideas rather than honest-to-God evidence.
> 
> As fate had it, that ignorance wasn’t going to last. I’m still not certain if I would’ve preferred for things to go differently, but ultimately, it didn’t matter. Things didn’t happen in the way where I got to live without having any firsthand encounters with Maurice.
> 
> With my GED under my belt, I got to start taking community college classes over the summer. The plan was to build up my transcript a bit and show that I could handle more than high school-level coursework, so that I could apply to schools that I considered “real” colleges and go out for scholarships and grants that could supplement the need-based financial aid I could get — and hopefully to do it without taking out too much in student loans or relying on Shiro for too much. In my mind, I was already getting more than I ever deserved out of him, including the belief that I could even go to a “real” college in the first place; I didn’t need to owe Shiro whatever he’d spend on getting me a degree, too.
> 
> Since I’d broken my promise not to fall in love with him, the least I could do for Shiro in return was keep an eye out for him. That’s what I was supposedly doing as his knight in matte-finished combat boots, after all, and it was true that someone needed to look out for him, since he so often failed at doing it himself. Fortunately, the bookshop was close enough to the buildings where I had most of my classes, so I could easily slog over during a lunch-break and make sure that Shiro didn’t “forget” (meaning, “neglect”) to take one for himself. Some days were better for him than others, while still different days were worse. Some days, I felt like I should’ve gone and couldn’t get away, while others left me exhausted after going out with him. But as long as he was eating, then I didn’t want to care how hard things were for me.
> 
> One afternoon, though, I headed over with my same old plan in mind, and as I rounded the corner, I saw Shiro leaving the bookshop with someone else. It might’ve been that I’m shorter than Shiro, or it might’ve been how Shiro was slouching, but Maurice seemed even taller than Shiro had led me to believe. His chest and shoulders were broader than a barn and his suit, immaculately tailored to him. Everything about him was big, from his cinderblock jaw to his black sideburns so thick, they were nearly muttonchops, to the hand clamped around one of Shiro’s shoulders. The only exceptions were the slits of Maurice’s eyes, permanently narrowed, whether he was looking down at Shiro or glaring down at me. If he hadn’t smirked like the iceberg that sunk the Titanic when Shiro introduced us, I might’ve gotten through this first meeting and thought that Maurice was only capable of scowling.
> 
> “Ah, yes, I’ve heard a good deal about you, Keith. Shiro speaks of you quite fondly,” he said, clenching his free hand around one of mine while the other arm stayed fixed to Shiro. Maurice’s eyebrows jumped up when I gripped on back, doing my best to give as good as I was getting. I couldn’t manage, not when he was so huge and had muscles bulging absolutely everywhere, but I still had to try. Weak handshakes were for people who didn’t have friends to fight for.
> 
> So, I held fast to his hand until my knuckles felt like they were going to break. I forced myself to look Maurice in the eye while answering him with, “Likewise. Shiro says a lot about how rough you can get — in court, I mean. He respects you very much.”
> 
> Bad cover-story or not, I wasn’t going for that much subtlety. I was practically picking a pissing contest with a man I already suspected of using a BDSM smokescreen to get away with abusing one of the only people I’d ever really loved, romantically or not. Looking back, I wish that I hadn’t bothered, because when Maurice let my hand go, he tightened his grip on Shiro’s shoulder so much, I would’ve testified under oath that Shiro winced. Maybe the half-whining grunt of protest was all in my imagination, but not the way that a ghost of pain spasmed across Shiro’s face.
> 
> Frowning at him, I didn’t know how to say that I was thinking or ask the things that I wanted, not without tipping off Maurice and giving him an excuse continue treating Shiro terribly. But I still knotted my brow and sighed, and hoped that Shiro might take me up on my offer. No, we didn’t have a safety phrase, and we never came up with one before he disappeared, but he’s always had a better grasp of subtlety than I do. If anybody could’ve said, “Please help me” right in front of their (then alleged but seriously suspected) abuser without tipping off said jackass and getting into trouble, I thought Shiro would’ve been that person.
> 
> Instead, he forced a wobbly smile like he was trying to reassure himself as much as me. “Sorry, Keith… I’d’ve told you, if I knew you’d be coming for lunch. And I’d invite you, but Maurice wants to go to this new place uptown that one of the other ADAs recommended? It’s pretty fancy, it has a dress code, I guess they’re pretty strict about it—”
> 
> “Well, that explains the nice button-up,” I chimed in, hoping that it seemed like I wasn’t even thinking, much less trying to divert Maurice’s attention and keep him from guessing that I had any kind of games afoot. Sure, I wasn’t great at playing them — my old case worker used to compare me to open books and the backs of cereal boxes because he could read me so easily — but as I dragged my fingers back through my hair, I couldn’t let Shiro go without making the same effort that a real knight would put into protecting his beloved. “But I mean, I get it? I didn’t let you **know** that I was coming? So, you couldn’t have guessed, like? I wasn’t very  helpful, showing up out of the blue like this? I should’ve called?”
> 
> Arching my eyebrows on certain words made me feel like an idiot, but if it got my point across, I didn’t care.
> 
> Whether it did or not, I never quite decided. Maurice certainly wrinkled his nose as if he’d gotten covered in month-old, putrid garbage, and my hands itched to pick a fight with him. Who cared if he was nine inches taller than me, probably twice as heavy, and built like a brick wall against my compact, wiry frame that Shiro had called scrappy and Mark had once described with, “Well, sure, you could be a squire if you really worked at it, but there’s no way you’d be allowed to play a knight on TV, so forget about being one for real in anybody’s mind but Shiro’s.” But Shiro was the listener I cared about the most, and the wan half-smile that he made me look at could have meant too many things for me to guess at what he meant.
> 
> All I knew for sure was that I didn’t like how uncertain Shiro sounded as he told me, “I’ll see you at home later, okay? But make sure you go eat before your afternoon classes,” and that I hated the frown he wore, looking back at me as Maurice dragged him down the block.

*** * ***

Around 6:45 PM on Sunday night, it occurs to Keith that he likely has no right to be shocked anymore when things don’t go according to his plans. After the past week-and-a-little-extra, he should stop probably outlining his ideal courses of action altogether. Plans have apparently gone to the penguins and, anyway, Keith sucked at sticking to more than his loosest bullet-points even _before_ Shiro dropped back into his life.

It occurred to him at about 11:15 PM on Saturday night that it is entirely unfair for the campus library to close early on Sunday, like a _normal_ library that _doesn’t_ primarily cater to a bunch of sleep-deprived, human-shaped disaster areas who have varying due dates to meet or lie to their professors about. Granted, Keith can’t blame the library staff who are also students, especially not the ones who are on work-study — he assumes that they all have things to do as well and that it’s rude to keep them there all night — but midterm season seems like a perfect reason to keep the library open all night for a few days. Finals had done so since before Keith had even applied to study here, much less accepted his admission and financial aid package. Why should midterms be any different?

Instead, Keith started typing up what bits of essay he had written on Saturday night and got through two scenes exactly before midnight kicked him out of the library’s computer lab. Trudging across campus to Hedrick Hall, he hoped that he hadn’t used up enough good fortune to get locked out on the grounds that his student ID knows he doesn’t live there. When he had that much luck left to his name, he hoped that he could sneak into one of the viewing rooms and crash out on the couch until the library opened up again without being bothered by campus security. After that worked out in his favor, Keith should’ve guessed that, even with other factors that recently had gone other than how he’d wanted, he was maxed out on things going his way for the next couple weeks.

But he still finds himself cussing a blue streak under his breath as 6:55 PM comes charging into everything and he isn’t even remotely done with Ryner’s essay yet. Saving the draft and emailing it to himself, he tries to run down his options, instead of dwelling on how many scenes he still has yet to finish typing up or how the cramps in his hands make an increasing amount of sense, now. Writing everything out, it didn’t feel like quite so much, but now that he’s down to five hours before the due date and has a sizable heap of typing left to finish… _Holy tadpole-skipping motherfuck, Kogane, why couldn’t we compromise our integrity, just this once? It isn’t even like we’re going to get a decent grade, after all this work, why fucking bother… But come on. If we’re going all in, where can we go? The lab at the art building won’t be open too much longer, the one at the student center closed at six…_

With a heavy sigh, Keith plods up from the library’s basement and glares out at the rain. Of course, it would have to start raining. But there’s no time to fixate on that. As quickly as his feet will carry him, Keith bolts past the creative arts building, heading for the all-night Internet cafe. When he gets there, he doesn’t even bother heading in. Through the window-wall, he sees people putting their names on a wait-list and all of them wear _Kaltenecker University_ and/or pictures of their school’s unofficial bovine mascot on their sweatshirts, sweatpants, t-shirts, or in one case, lime green booty-shorts. Not that Keith had a creative idea, in coming here, but God, he thought most profs’ due dates would’ve passed already. _Don’t they want for midterms to end almost half as much as their students do? Don’t they have lives or something? Would having a life or not even make a difference about when they set their assignments or—_

Before Keith can get any other ideas or let his pride take over for him, he ducks into the alley by the cafe and pulls out his phone. He holds his breath, but fortunately, Shiro picks up on the first ring. The first thing he asks is if Keith’s okay. He doesn’t give Keith a chance to answer that or not before asking Keith what’s wrong. Fair enough: Keith pays for the cheapest plan he could find that gave him unlimited texting because he almost never uses his phone as a _phone_. Like, to _talk to people vocally_. He almost never did that in Chicago, either.

“I need… Can I come over?” he says, trying not to whine and slouching against the wall behind him, as much as he can without taking off his backpack. “I got kicked from the library, that stupid essay’s due at midnight, I don’t have a computer and Allura’s out of town, so can I…? Please?”

Shiro’s only hang-up is that asking Hunk and Lance is fair, since those two are over and the three of them share the apartment. But when Keith explains the situation again on speaker, neither Hunk nor Lance objects to having him over. Hunk even pipes up to offer dinner, because he’s apparently made quite a bit tonight and he guesses, not inaccurately, that Keith could likely use some brain-food, or any food in general. What trips them up the most is trying to tell Keith how to get to the apartment, but even that gets resolved pretty quickly:

“You know where your art building is, Mullet?” Lance snaps over-top of Hunk and Shiro, who are going back and forth about where Keith is supposed to turn left or not. “Pidge is over there right now, and she’s about to head home. Tell me what you’re wearing, I’ll text her, and she can get you over here. She and Matt live upstairs from us, she knows where she’s going.”

Pushing off his wall and heading for the art building, Keith says, “Red hoodie, black backpack, black jeans.” As he ducks back onto the sidewalk, he adds, “Tell her that I probably look like a sad, drowned street rat. Shouldn’t be too hard to find me. And, Lance?” Keith sighs, but for all he doesn’t feel like doing the polite thing right now, he knows that he should, and Shiro would probably appreciate it. So, he tacks on a quick, “Thanks” before hanging up.

Over at the art building, Keith’s problem becomes deciding where to wait. If he’s too close to the door, under one of the awnings, then Pidge might miss him. But if he waits under one of the street-lamps, where he’ll be easier to see, then he will also be under the increasing downpour and thanking whatever lucky star that at least his backpack’s waterproof. Ultimately, the point ends up somewhat moot. Keith’s nerves don’t let him settle down and instead of really _waiting_ , he paces between the awning and the lamplight until _somebody_ clears their throat and stops him in his tracks. Turning on his heel, he blinks down at the light brown bedhead and the owlish look that Pidge’s huge, wire-rim glasses give to her eyes, the way the lenses magnify her dark under-eye rings until they look like bruises. Stuck with something of a babyface, she would look about fifteen if not for the clear midterm season exhaustion and the tattoo Keith clearly glimpses past her forest green sweatshirt’s gaping neckline, sitting right at the top of her chest.

“Nice goat,” he says, pointing at it.

Rolling her eyes, Pidge corrects him: “It’s a ram? For my zodiac sign. Shiro designed it for me.”

“Oh, cool.” Keith adjusts the straps of his backpack. “He designed the lion that I have on my back.”

“He and Lance say that I’m supposed to take you back to their and Hunk’s place. Hunk added that I should, ‘Try to be nice’ because you’re important to Shiro and probably tired.” When Keith swallows his impulse to comment on the state of things between him and Shiro, agreeing with her understanding of the plan, Pidge doesn’t even give him the chance to appreciate the fact that she makes quotation marks with her fingers, too. She huffs instead and thrusts an umbrella into his hands. “Tallest one gets to keep us dry. Sound fair enough to you?”

Keith supposes that it does and once he’s popped the umbrella open, Pidge leads them back the way he came, toward the Internet cafe. He doesn’t mind when they go for several minutes without saying much of anything, beyond a couple snatches of small-talk about how much midterm season sucks. He doesn’t even completely mind that he has to walk slower than he’d like because he’s probably a good six inches taller than Pidge and, in her own words, she suffers from both short legs — “As opposed to you. I mean, I know you’re not that tall, but seriously, with legs like that, you should be _dancing_ instead of… whatever it is you study” — and a very heavy backpack. Keith would take it off her hands, but his is likely even heavier. Besides, he feels like Pidge would object and feel condescended to. Something about how she sets her jaw while complaining about her older brother’s objections to how much she carries with her leaves Keith with the distinct impression that she might have as much self-reliant pride to her name as he does.

Instead of going quiet and letting things be easier between them, though, Pidge keeps _peering_ at him, squinting up at Keith like he’s an especially confusing slide beneath her microscope. Awkward silences follow Keith more closely than bad luck and chaos; they always have. But usually, _Keith_ is the one who’s making them awkward. He’s the one who misses some reference or doesn’t get the joke. He’s the one who doesn’t want to say that certain topics don’t interest him in the slightest, because saying that makes people tend to hate him, but who also quickly runs out of ideas for what to say because he has to tune out most of what’s being said or his temper will get the better of him. This time, Pidge is the one who’s making things feel funny, because her eyes have an inquisitive glint to them even while she looks like she could pass out right now, if someone let her near a sofa.

While they’re held up at a crosswalk, Keith huffs and shrugs down at her like, _What do you want from me?_ — because he _could_ outright say that, but that might be rude and if Pidge is trying to be nice to him, then he should do the same.

“ _Soooo…_ ” she says, arching her eyebrows until they get lost underneath her messy bangs but without any obvious intent behind it. She might be doing that like a fidget or something, simply for the sake of doing something with her face. “You’re autistic, right? Not asking out of judgment, by the way. Curiosity, more than anything. Because I heard from _Lance_ who heard from _Shiro_ that _you’re_ on the spectrum, too?”

“Wait, _too_?” Keith splutters. _Well, that explains the lack of judgment, I guess—_ but he still waits for Pidge to nod before telling her, “Yeah, I am. My third foster family dragged me to a counselor because they thought my first and second families had been even worse shit-holes than my case-worker led them to believe—”

“Your case-worker called your previous foster families _shit-holes_?” One of Pidge’s eyebrows drops, and in some way, she still looks like she’s _rehearsing_ these expressions more than genuinely making them, but hey, it’s not like Keith can judge. People have accused him of only knowing how to use his face right when he’s too hot-blooded or too worked up to keep himself restrained.

With a huff, he clarifies, “I don’t know what my case-worker called them, but I would _guess_ that he didn’t specifically call them shit-holes. Probably something more official-sounding and he probably threw around words like, ‘abuse’ and, ‘trauma.’” Which wouldn’t have been unfair, Keith guesses, but as the light changes and they move forward, that’s one of the last things that he wants to deal with. “I call them shit-holes because that’s how I remember them. Anyway, the Taylors’ counselor lady figured out that I was on the spectrum instead of just being, I dunno, broken.”

“Huh. My Mom thought that I might be, pretty early. She’s a child psychologist, so I guess maybe it was easier for her to notice? I mean, obviously, we still had to get my diagnosis from someone else, because of all the professional ethical issues of trying to treat your own family members, but Mom and Dad had already been through all that when Matt — that’s my older brother, Matt? He’s been friends with Shiro longer than the rest of us, except for maybe you, I guess — but anyway, like I was saying? Our parents had already gone through the hoops of professional ethics and finding the right kiddie shrink and all that stuff when he got diagnosed with OCD and ADHD, so when I turned up and seemed like a total spectrum kid, we…”

Pidge trails off like she’s expecting Keith to at least cut her off or more obviously start ignoring her. But for one thing, he can’t totally ignore her while she’s leading him to Shiro’s place. For another thing, and somewhat more pressingly if you ask Keith, the air between them feels a lot less _squiffy_ while Pidge is letting herself babble freely. Maybe it’s not exactly _comfortable_ , but that’s less on her and more on Keith. Specifically, it’s on how much he reminds Antok of Rufus, rarely warming up to anyone until he’s had at least a few good chances to feel them out. Hunk got through to him pretty quickly, but Hunk is the exception, not the rule. For now, though, Keith would be content to shut up and listen while Pidge spits out whatever’s on her mind. Then, both of them will have put in the effort to play nicely with each other and she can info-dump, and Keith won’t make anything awkward as Hell between them by putting his foot so far down his throat that he eats his fucking leg.

Instead of letting him have that, though, Pidge spends the next crosswalk stop blinking up at Keith again. When they get walking again, she says, “So, if you’re on the spectrum, how come I haven’t seen you at any meetings of the NDSU — the Neurodiverse Student Union? Or meetings with the campus chapter of ASAN?”

When Keith asks if the second one is some Autism Speaks-related something-or-other, Pidge’s eyes lose all semblance of a glint, going dull with disbelief and pretty obvious annoyance. “It’s the Autistic Self-Advocacy Network, genius,” she explains. “It’s an organization _by_ people like us and _for_ people like us, organized around the needs and concerns of _people like us_. So, y’know, it’s basically the exact _opposite_ of the glorified train-wreck that is Autism Dollar Sign-Peaks.”

She smirks like this is a really clever way of verbally spelling out the way Keith’s seen Autism Speaks posters graffitied around campus before. Giving her a small and hopefully reassuring smile, Keith doesn’t bother bringing up that he heard them use a similar tactic on an old episode of _Glee_ , back when Shiro still watched that fucking show and Kesha still stylized her name with the dollar sign. It’s the end of midterm season, and Pidge is trying her best to be nice to him. He doesn’t need to wreck her fun when her enthusiasm is pretty cute and she isn’t hurting anybody.

However, she apparently needs to nudge his shoulder, once they turn a corner — and she does it deliberately, hard enough for him to feel it, probably so he can’t chalk it up to the fact that there isn’t a lot of space under this umbrella. “ _Soooo_? Why haven’t I seen you at the meetings?”

“I don’t really _do_ group meetings,” Keith says. He wants to just leave it at that, but the way Pidge knots up her forehead makes his chest twist guiltily, so he adds on, “Look, I went to two meetings back in my freshman year, okay? You probably weren’t here, yet. First time was when Thace was still my advisor. He suggested that I go, as if being around a bunch of other auties would help me go talk to the Students With Disabilities office. It _didn’t_ , so I wasn’t gonna go back, but…”

While he shrugs, Keith tries not to shift the umbrella too much, so neither of them has to get rained on. “Then there was this bullshit miscommunication about my scholarships and I lost my student housing. One night, I was broke and hungry, but I was also trying not to blow my meal plan too quickly. The NDSU meeting had free pizza, so I went.”

Pidge considers this for a moment, then asks, “But why didn’t you go back?”

“Because I wasn’t _hungry_? Look, if they offered more free food on nights when I could use it, maybe I’d make more regular appearances, but since they don’t, it’s like? Why would I even _want_ to go…” Okay, in fairness, Pidge really doesn’t deserve the snide tone or the indignation that Keith’s hearing in his voice right now. He takes a deep breath as she leads him around another corner, onto a longer block that goes past a bodega, a flower shop, and several restaurants, most of which are either closed or in the process of closing.

After a moment, he tells her, “Sorry for snapping, I just… It’s like I said, okay? I really don’t _do_ group meetings. I don’t see the point of sitting around in a circle with a bunch of people I don’t know, who probably aren’t gonna like me, whining at each other about how much it _sucks_ to be autistic like we don’t already _know that_.”

“That isn’t really what we _do_ …” Pidge starts. “And I mean, being autistic doesn’t _have_ to suck—”

“That’s all it’s ever done for me. So, if you like your meetings, that’s great. But I’m happier _not_ thinking about any of this.” As close as Keith ever gets to _happy_ , anyway, but there’s no reason to make that shit Pidge’s business when Keith barely understands it himself. He could shut up entirely and let everything be done and over with, but sadly, as they hit what Pidge swears is their second-to-last crosswalk, Keith’s mouth gets other ideas: “God, why does our school want us to dump our personal lives all over each other so badly? I swear, between what happened at the two meetings I went to and the bullshit that Ryner’s making me write for her stupid class, I could…”

Keith trails off, furrowing his brow down at a bright, starry-eyed smile that rivals one of Allura’s. If human faces could shine like lightbulbs, Pidge’s would be a whole freaking football field, lit up for either a Bowl game or the World Cup, depending on which kind of football someone means.

“Oh shit, right,” he mutters before he can stop himself. “Ryner’s your _advisor_ , isn’t she?” Pidge nods; Keith groans softly and hates that he sounds so goddamn petulant right now. “Shiro told me that. While he was trying to help me with my essay. I should’ve remembered, but… Fuck me, this assignment has been the _worst_ kind of pain in the ass, and whatever I turn in, I _know_ that Ryner’s gonna hate it.”

“Uh, the closest I’ve seen Ryner get to hating anything is when she talks about how Dr. Lubos mismanages the creative writing department, and honestly? I can’t blame her for that at _all_.” Rolling her eyes, Pidge explains, “I mean, Ryner’s been basically running the whole show since she made tenure, but Lubos has the Department Head title because he’s tucked up in Dean Zarkon’s back-pocket. It’s _crap_. Like, the exact opposite of _fetch_.”

“Not that you don’t know what you’re talking about?” Keith says and hopes that he can keep the conversation as far away from the subject of Ryner as possible. “But Shiro also told me that you’re into computer science? I mean, he didn’t say it was your major or anything, but…”

“Double-major in comp-sci and creative writing, baby!” Pidge beams, but after a few seconds of confused silence out of Keith, she _sighs_ and explains that she’s riffing on an old strip from something called _A Softer World_. With that out of the way, they could conceivably go anywhere, but she shakes her head like she _knows_ what Keith is playing at and needs to clear her mind. Squinting at him, she says, “What’d you even _do_ to make Ryner hate you, like? How _badly_ do you have to screw up to swing a thing that?”

“I didn’t _do_ anything!” Maybe that’s not entirely true, but Keith’s not going to admit to that right now.

“Okay, then what the Hell is your _problem_?”

“I’m not the one with the problem!” Keith snaps a bit more harshly than he means to, especially when he knows good and goddamn well that Pidge isn’t the person he’s really angry with. “ _Ryner’s_ the one who’s trying to make me bitch about my personal life to a bunch of strangers when it’s called _personal_ for a _reason_.” 

“She wants students to _write_ about their issues for a reason, too.” Pidge may not be sneering at Keith, exactly, but at the moment, she sure as shit looks like the _wants_ to. “Didn’t you get that from going over the syllabus on the first day?”

“Not _really_ , no?! The syllabus was all, ‘You can use this class to tell stories about the issues that are important to you,’ so I kept thinking I’d get to write about shit that fucking _matters_.” Which should be enough explanation, but Pidge just _needs_ to ask what Keith thinks he means by that.

Groaning he acquiesces and tells her, “I wanted to write about shit like, I don’t know? Politics. History and current events. Things that affect bigger _groups_ of people, not some total, unadulterated, microcosmic _crap_ like, ‘Oh boy, Brittany and her brother disagree about pineapple on pizza’ and, ‘So, I didn’t believe that anybody ever actually had _fun_ during sex until this one time in Chicago when Shiro fucked me into the mattress so nicely that the clouds parted, and my whole body just felt _pink_ , and choirs of naked baby angels sang, “Once Upon A Dream” from _Sleeping Beauty_ in six-part harmony, and okay, I still didn’t think I was in love with him because I’m a dumb-ass, but I might’ve cried if we hadn’t worked up such a sweat because he was _just that **good**_ at fucking me.’”

Keith’s brain only catches up to his mouth when he hears Pidge fail to repress her snickering. His cheeks flush hot as he glances around the street, but there doesn’t seem to be too many other people out right now. As far as he can tell, none of them are paying any attention to him, or what he’s said, or the fact that Pidge is progressively losing any semblance of a grip on her amusement. He tries to glare at her, but that only makes her grin and pull them over to the alley between a shawarma place and a CVS so she can slump against the wall and double over, laughing. But at least this is an improvement on feeling like Shiro’s disappointed in Keith and progressively losing his patience with all Keith’s attempts at arguing that Ryner has no business asking him to write about his life in the way she seems to want. Letting Pidge get it out of her system is probably what’s best for everybody. All Keith has to do is wait it out, keep breathing deeply, and make sure that she doesn’t get too wet.

When Pidge finally pulls herself back together, she tells him, “Okay, if you haven’t written it already and you can make it work? You should totally work that thing about Shiro into your midterm piece. Maybe don’t be so _maudlin_ about it, ‘cause she’ll _know_ that you’re being sarcastic, but I’m pretty sure _nobody’s_ been that blunt with Ryner in a piece before.”

Why Pidge is giving Keith pointers on making her advisor’s life difficult, he can’t even begin to guess. But screw it, he’s not gonna look this horse in the mouth. “I could find a way to make it work,” he says. “Maybe not that particular moment but one of the scenes I have to finish typing was building up to me having sex with Shiro, anyway. And I… oh, shit, fuck, _god- **fucking** -dammit_…”

Keith’s face flushes hot again as he realizes that Pidge is smirking like she just got the most decisive upper-hand in the entire recorded history of upper-hands. “I don’t suppose asking you not to tell Hunk and Lance about this is…” With a huff, Keith pushes off the wall, but tries to keep the umbrella over Pidge. “Look, things between me and Shiro are messy enough to work through _without_ the three of you gossiping about it, okay?”

Pidge gives him a mock-pensive face, then points out, “What about not telling _Shiro_? I mean, if you’re gonna ask me to keep secrets for you, then why do Hunk and Lance matter more than him?”

“Because of the _gossip_ problem?” Although Pidge has a point about Keith’s oversight here, telling her that he thinks so could probably go very, very wrong. “I don’t know about letting Shiro read the essay yet. Maybe I will, maybe I won’t. But you three gossiping about us is more immediately unhelpful than me writing about him for Ryner. I’m not withholding things from Shiro in a way where I mean to do it forever. Lance already yelled at me about talking to Shiro better, and he was right, and I’m _gonna_ do that. But first, I have to finish this essay so your advisor can fucking fail me for not giving her what she wants, instead of for turning in absolutely _nothing_.”

Rolling her eyes, Pidge playfully shoves Keith’s shoulder. “As long as you turn in _something_ , Ryner is _not_ going to outright fail you. That’s one of her policies. Lubos might fail you for stuff like that, but he’s a piece of shit and he mostly teaches graduate students anyway.”

As they start walking again, Pidge perks right up, with a bounce in her step even before she excitedly info-dumps: “But okay, so, Ryner? She’s _brilliant_ , like one of the smartest, most creative people I’ve ever met. Whatever you’re thinking and whatever’s really important to you, she can meet you halfway and try to work out _something_. She believes that everything and everyone is fundamentally connected to each other, even in distant ways. But if you aren’t really being honest, she sees that as creatively holding yourself back, and she’s all about encouraging students _not_ to do that…”

Seething at Pidge is probably doing nothing to help Keith’s case that he is relatively problem-free, compared to Ryner. Glaring at the sidewalk most likely isn’t doing him any favors, either. If anything, both approaches are probably hurting his argument more than his continued insistence on separating his politics and his myriad boring personal issues. So, at his and Pidge’s last crosswalk, Keith sighs and tries to explain himself, how he thought he knew what “creative nonfiction” meant when he listened to his advisor and signed up for Ryner’s class, how much he dislikes his classmates and having to pretend their whining has any literary value, and of course, how his expectations have gotten massacred more thoroughly than what Dick Hickock and Perry Smith did to the Clutters. (Openly rolling his eyes at Pidge’s confusion, Keith clarifies, “The murderers and dead family from _In Cold Blood_ ”; Pidge nods in recognition, like maybe Shiro’s discussed Keith’s Capote phase with her as well, or at least vaguely mentioned that he had one.)

“Anyway, I _get_ that Ryner has a thing about how personal stuff is important, too, but _goddamn_ …” Sighing, Keith hops over a puddle and holds Pidge’s hand while she does the same. Disliking her advisor is no reason to treat _Pidge_ like crap. “I swear, if Kolivan hadn’t told me that he genuinely thought this class might be _good_ and _edifying_ for me, I’d think he was testing me again.”

“Wait, _Kolivan_? Like, the head of the history department? _That’s_ who your advisor is?”

When she gets Keith’s nod of confirmation, Pidge doesn’t try to stop herself from cringing or making a vocal, _“Ugh.”_ But nevertheless, she leads them under an awning, and while Keith folds up the umbrella and shakes off the excess rainwater, she holds open the door. Based on the ground floor, Galaxy Garrison’s complex looks a lot like the apartment-style housing down at the south end of campus. Maybe a little nicer, but the building is clearly not trying to impress anyone and Keith respects that. Ostentation is so irritating. Keith and Pidge cross the lobby with their wet sneakers squeaking on the wonky mottle-patterned tiles. They pause only so she can take the contents out of a mailbox and then to wait for the elevator. Once they’re in the car and heading for the eighth floor, Keith nudges at her shoulder with his arm.

“Hey, I told you what my problem is with _your_ advisor,” he points out when Pidge pouts at him. “How about you tell me why you apparently hate _mine_?”

“Well, technically, I _can’t_ hate Kolivan because I’ve never even _met_ him?” Pidge says and slouches, folding her arms over her chest. “And I don’t want to dislike him or anything because Ryner respects him so much — like, more than the standard, ‘She has respect for people in general because they’re alive and have basic dignity, blah blah, she was totally a hippie back in the day’ levels of it? But I’ve _heard_ that Kolivan can be stubborn as fuck and impossible to please, that he grades like super-harshly, and that he’s kind of an asshole. Even _Ryner_ says that he can sometimes be difficult to deal with, which is basically _her_ version of calling somebody a real piece of work.”

Keith doesn’t intentionally mirror Pidge’s posture, but slouching and hugging himself sounds like a good idea, at the moment. “Okay, he doesn’t grade students _that_ harshly. Maybe I’m _biased_ because I like him and that’s one thing we never had a problem with, but I think he’s totally fair. He’s had some trouble with being clear on exactly what he _wants_ from students in assignments, but he’s gotten a lot better. Especially since my best friend Allura and her now-girlfriend got some people together to unofficially complain.”

The other accusations are a bit harder to refute, especially when Keith’s said as much before himself and done it to Kolivan’s face, besides. But as he and Pidge trudge into the hallway, Keith makes an attempt: “As for being an asshole and everything? Yeah, Kolivan can be hard to work with and hard to get to know, but…?”

Shrugging, Keith trails ever-so-slightly behind Pidge and tells her, “I don’t know, I like him? His scholarship is brilliant, obviously, or he wouldn’t have even half of the accolades he does. But as a person? He knows _who he is_ and what he’s about. He lives his truth without apologizing when he doesn’t genuinely owe that to anybody. Yeah, sure, maybe that’s difficult to deal with sometimes? But I think that’s only because so many people in this world compromise who they are for no good reason. Kolivan _doesn’t_ , and he doesn’t make me censor myself unless I _want_ to keep something private, and then he usually respects those boundaries.”

He pauses briefly while Pidge bangs on the door to apartment 819, but when she’s done, Keith finishes up, “I dunno. Maybe I just feel like Kolivan kinda _gets_ me because we’re both difficult, stubborn assholes, and we have to make ourselves as irreplaceable as fucking possible because most people really don’t like putting up with us.”

If Pidge has something to say to that, Keith never gets to hear it. While she’s giving him a Pointed Look — squinting at him as if she can’t tell where the line is between Keith’s honesty and his attempt at being facetious about his genuine emotions — the door opens with a smack against the wall. Clad in a slightly oversized t-shirt with a screenprint of a cute, vaguely mermaidish-seeming quadrupedal blue critter that looks like it’s probably some kind of Pokémon, Lance leans against the frame. With a towel tucked under one arm and up against his side, he stretches out the other so he can occupy as much of the threshold as possible while he drawls about how he doesn’t _remember_ ordering a pizza. But he also doesn’t fight back or protest in the slightest when Pidge shoves past him and toes out of her shoes.

Once she’s bounced off elsewhere, Lance lets Keith in without a fuss. Giving him an unadorned, “Hey, man,” he tosses over the towel. While rubbing it over his hair, Keith trails after Lance, apparently toward the kitchen, where Shiro’s at the table with his laptop at his hands, his hair tied back, and Rover curled up by his feet. He’s doing a good job of looking busy with the computer, until he smiles and waves at Keith and Lance while they wait in the threshold. Meanwhile, Hunk putters around in a sunshine yellow apron that says, _“Spooning Leads To Forking”_ with an admittedly cute cartoon of a fork and a spoon that are supposed to be in love with each other, and Pidge perches on the edge of a countertop, drinking a pouch of Capri Sun.

“So what’s on for food?” she says, toeing at the side of Hunk’s belly.

“Are you _staying_?” Hunk sounds like he’s pulling a face but in fairness, Keith is currently looking at his back. “Not that you aren’t welcome or anything, Pidgeon, because you always _are_? But nobody told me we’d be having _two_ guests for dinner?”

“Yeah, because you totally didn’t make enough for leftovers or something?” Although she seems to find this a very important point, Pidge soon ends up sulking and rolling her eyes while Hunk puts his oven mitt-swaddled hands on his hips. “Matt texted before you guys did and asked if I wouldn’t mind giving him some space tonight. Apparently, he’s having some guy he met at church over and things might get incredibly naked in _very_ short order.”

“Well, I don’t mind, like… And okay, yes, I made enough food for everybody, but…” Hunk sighs, but doesn’t manage to hide the affectionate note that creeps into his voice. “Some advance warning next time, that’s all I’m asking. And do you wanna bunk down with me or Lance tonight?”

“What if I wanna bunk with Shiro for once? He snuggles almost as well as you do and there is a distinct lack of throwing tantrums about his face-mask like a certain Lance who shall remain nameless.”

“I’m standing _right here_ ,” Lance sighs, but without much intent or genuine frustration behind it.

“Well, whether Shiro wants to let you sleep with him or not would depend on him. But I think you wanting that in the first place sounds incredibly unlikely, since you always complain about him stealing all the covers—”

“Yeah, but Lance has cold feet and _you_ go to bed way earlier than the rest of us—”

“I am _not_ gonna apologize for trying to keep a semi-decent sleep schedule when it’s better for you and makes managing any of our myriad issues _so much easier_ —”

“Hey, why don’t you host Lance for the night, and I’ll sleep in his bed with Rover?”

Pidge and Hunk’s banter with each other feels like a piece of performance art so, trying not to interrupt, Keith hisses at Lance, “…Matt meets guys at _church_?”

“She means her broski’s favorite bar,” Lance explains, taking Keith’s hint and getting weirdly _sotto voce_ by his standards. “No one ever remembers its name because it’s this total weirdo hipster place and it doesn’t believe in signs or business cards. But it’s over on Church Street, so…” He trails off into a shrug. “Also, I guess their parents like thinking that _one_ of their kids still goes to services, even though _neither_ of them do?”

Keith nods, and doesn’t think there’s much left to say. Still, after a moment, he whispers, “Okay, but what _is_ for dinner and can I _write_ while eating it? Because I’m _really_ cutting it close on a deadline tonight, and—”

“Hey, d’you two have something to share with the rest of class?” If Shiro wanted to sound stern, the fond smile he gives Keith and Lance ruins it.

“Ooooh, I have something to share if they don’t!” Pidge pipes up, even raising her hand as if they’re actually in a class right now. When Shiro chuckles and bids her to go ahead, she beams at him and points at Keith. “Can we keep him? I mean, he’s cranky and prickly, kinda like he’s a little mullet-having hedgehog? But I really like him and it’s totally rude that the fam doesn’t have anybody else on the spectrum, so he’s staying, right?”

“I mean… I’m staying for dinner and typing up my essay, at least?” Keith offers.

Finally, Hunk turns to smile at him. “And for cupcakes if you’re here late enough, okay? Since I hear that it’s a certain someone’s very special birthday when the clock strikes twelve?”

Flushing pink, Keith ducks his head. Taking care not to disturb Rover, he sets his backpack down by the table and while he’s peeling himself out of his sweatshirt, he says, “You didn’t have to do that… I mean, twenty-four’s not that special as far as birthdays go, right? I can already vote and drink and buy porn, but I still can’t rent a car on my own. Or couldn’t if I had the cash for that, I mean—”

“Oh for _quiznak’s_ sakes, Keith,” Lance groans over top of him, almost certainly misusing that word on purpose, specifically to get on Keith’s nerves like Lance can annoy him into agreeing with the group (but then again, Keith didn’t _explain_ the nuances of meaning that keep, _“for quiznak’s sakes”_ from working quite like, _“for fuck’s sakes”_ does in English). “Come on, man. It’s a _birthday_ , okay? Free excuse to have fun and be the center of attention and let Hunk stuff you full of cupcakes.”

“He’s gonna send you home with a ton of them whether you want him to or not,” Pidge adds, and when Keith’s gotten himself untangled from his shirt, she’s nodding sagely. “And if you try to tell him, ‘No,’ he’s gonna worry and be sad at you. You don’t wanna make Hunk be worried and sad, _right_? …Hunk, come on. Help us out here. Look worried and sad.”

“Guys, I’m not going to emotionally manipulate him on demand for you.” Hunk rolls his eyes, but smiles when Keith mouths a silent, _“Thank you”_ at him. “I’ve got a meal to check on, and _he_ has an essay to write, and anyway, if Keith tries to turn down his birthday cupcakes, that means there’s more of them for you.” As Keith sits opposite Shiro, though, Hunk adds, “But it _would_ make me really happy if you at least tried one of them, okay? You totally like chocolate, right?”

Keith is content to simply nod, but as Shiro pushes over the laptop, he brushes his toes against Keith’s ankle and chimes in with, “Oh, Keith loves chocolate more than I love strawberries. If you’re still deciding on the filling, though? Raspberry’s your best bet for him. Not that he doesn’t like strawberries or pumpkin spice, too, but he prefers raspberry out of the three and he’d always pick that over pretty much any other fruity flavor, and… Well, I’d say that he doesn’t like pumpkin spice as much as Lance does, but _nobody_ likes pumpkin spice as much as Lance does?”

While Hunk asks where Keith falls on a more useful scale of pumpkin spice appreciation (“I mean, is he like, ‘I wouldn’t kick it out of bed but it’s not my favorite’ like Pidge and Shay or is he, ‘low-key gaga for it but not to the same extent as Lance’ like Matt and Plaxum?”), there are so many things Keith wants to question about what Shiro had to say. For one thing, he wants to know why Hunk is making him cupcakes with filling when they like each other, sure, but Hunk heard about Keith’s birthday from (most likely) Shiro, rather than from Keith himself? Even if Hunk enjoys cooking that much, isn’t this a lot of effort to put into a birthday present for somebody who he only met last week? For another thing: are he and Lance and Pidge _always_ like this when they’re together, or are they on their best behavior because Shiro put them up to it? Sure, Hunk was the one who told Pidge to be nice to Keith, but it wouldn’t be terribly unlike Shiro to ask them to pretend they tolerate Keith so he won’t feel too horrible about imposing on their hospitality?

For a third thing: what the Hell was the so-called, “fam” that Pidge mentioned, and what is Keith meant to be staying for or not? Like, okay, he knows that, “fam” is short for, “family” in most cases, and tomorrow night, Shiro’s meeting Allura, who is one of the people in Keith’s life who gets closest to being anything resembling family as well as his emergency contact. Despite that knowledge, though, the entire premise does not make sense. Keith is coming over technically uninvited, to steal Shiro’s computer for a few hours and finish airing several pieces of their story all over Ryner’s inbox. How does that translate into anything that merits being invited into any sort of, “fam”?

But when Shiro toes at his ankle, all Keith can think of to say is, “You remembered that? About me and raspberries?”

“How could I forget?” Shiro tilts his head curiously and furrows his brow, but it doesn’t last long. Glancing over Keith’s shoulder and nods. “Okay, Lance apparently needs me for something, but…”

With a sigh, Shiro stands up. As Rover whines at this change in the situation, Shiro comes to Keith’s side and ruffles his hair as much as he can when Keith’s still a bit damp. Smiling, Shiro leans down to kiss his forehead and tells Keith, “Get back to work, okay? We can talk more when your essay’s done.”

A very fair point. Inarguable, even. Doing his best to ignore how Pidge and Hunk are gawking at him, Keith sighs and logs into his student email. Once the draft is open in Shiro’s copy of Word, Keith digs his notebook out of his backpack. Fuck his life, it’s getting late, but so help him, he is going to get this essay done.

*** * ***

> Here’s another testament to how unreliable the human memory is, Ryner. So, like I said, Shiro is back in my life now and rather than making music alone, he plays and sings in a punk rock band called Galaxy Garrison. The drummer in said band is a sweetheart by the name of Hunk (I have no idea if his parents actually named him that or not, but it’s fitting because he’s gorgeous and it’s what everybody’s seen fit to call him, that I’ve heard). Anyway, I recently happened to meet Hunk outside of yelling at the four of them for keeping me up at four in the fucking morning and he helped me out with something. While we were shooting the shit, I mentioned that the last time I’d seen Shiro’s brother was Christmas 2012, and at the time, I didn’t feel like I was lying.
> 
> Except I was. Unintentionally, because until I started consulting my old journals, I’d blocked out Ryou’s involvement in or presence for certain episodes from before Shiro disappeared from my life back then, and I don’t even feel too horrible about having done so, considering everything else that was going on at the time — but that doesn’t make it any less of a lie.
> 
> For example: the morning after Shiro and Ryou’s twenty-third birthday found me and Shiro all by ourselves in the apartment. Mark had work and although Ryou had made a point of coming out to Chicago from Cambridge, MA specifically to spend time with his brother instead of spending it at the internship he’d gotten with one of his old profs from MIT, he wanted to go out for a while. I have no idea what he was up to because I didn’t feel like asking. Sure, it was weird for Ryou to hit the town, never mind doing it while his brother was still half-buried in his bed, but if it had been any business of mine, I figured Ryou would’ve said so.
> 
> Anyway, most of the possible, “appealing to Ryou” activities that occurred to me didn’t get me interested that morning and I doubted that Shiro would be too excited about getting involved in any of them right that second, either. If Ryou wanted to go to the shops on Michigan Avenue, Navy Pier, the Museum of Science and Industry, or some other place that might be called a, “must-see attraction,” neither Shiro nor I would’ve made great company, at the moment. Saying that Shiro was hungover would’ve been inaccurate, technically speaking — for this visit, Ryou and I had traded off between sleeping on the futon or bed-sharing with Shiro; I’d been on the futon the night before and while I was pretending to be asleep, I know that I heard Shiro rustling around for the stash of pills he kept behind the microwave — and I’d had Mark cut me off after two Jack-and-Cokes so I wouldn’t get too wasted. But the twins’ birthday had been a rough night for me and Shiro both, and I don’t like that tourist garbage to begin with, so Ryou would’ve had a better time indulging in it without either of us buzzkills tagging along.
> 
> Clearly, Ryou was there before the scene that followed. He and I even talked a bit before he put on his jacket and grabbed up the spare key in case Shiro and I had to go out ourselves for any old reason. And yet, I only remembered that while flipping through my old notebooks, trying to find what I’d scribbled about the night before — which was rather a lot, and there’s a break in the middle of a sentence, followed by a directionless squiggly line, after which my handwriting goes from, “still legible but noticeably messy” back to, “yes, it sometimes does hurt to write so neatly, but I had it literally beaten into me as a kid as punishment for never getting the hang of cursive, so what do you want me to do about it? Write in some train-wreck of chicken-scratch like Shiro does? Thanks, I’ll pass.”
> 
> Which I think means I must’ve fallen asleep in the middle of a thought and picked up in the morning. Judging by the stray pieces where I break off into a parenthetical like, “(That’s nice, Ryou, but you don’t need to give me a dissertation about how you’ll call if you need us for anything),” I was getting my thoughts about the previous night down while he was talking at me. Clearly, I could’ve been paying attention to my “it’s complicated”s brother, especially since there’s nothing that I dislike about Ryou so much as I simply don’t find him as interesting as Shiro, and for all I know, he could’ve been trying to have a serious conversation about Shiro (or literally anything else but come on: our biggest point of mutual interest is that both of us love his big brother, so if Ryou was bringing anything serious to me, smart money’s on it involving Shiro).
> 
> But, “It got to be close to noon and Ryou had been gone for an hour-and-a-half before I noticed that Shiro still hadn’t roused in any meaningful way” is only one reason why I don’t blame myself for completely blanking on the fact that Ryou had not only been in town, but I’d also dealt with and temporarily shared living space with him.
> 
> A little while after Ryou headed out, Shiro stirred enough to put on some of the music he liked, opting for a playlist that started with Supertramp’s “The Logical Song.” I tried not to eavesdrop much, in case he wanted more privacy than his open bedroom door afforded him, but even after the night we’d had, he didn’t keep the volume down. While I curled up with my notebook on the futon, he dragged us through, “Hotel California,” a Scissor Sisters song allegedly inspired by and named for the 1985 Return to Oz movie except if you ask me they more borrowed imagery from the movie and Jim Henson’s The Dark Crystal in order to paint a picture of young LGBTQ people feeling devastated and hopeless after getting fucked up on crystal meth, more Elliott Smith than I liked hearing from his room on a Friday morning, Depeche Mode’s “Walking In My Shoes,” and some Sufjan Stevens song about John Wayne Gacy, Jr.
> 
> Even at the time, I so hated myself for this, but I had to wonder where, exactly, Shiro got off moping like he was after the previous night’s events. Of the two of us, I’d put myself out there over karaoke. I’d gotten choked up and misty-eyed in front of strangers, and only barely avoided demeaning and humiliating myself further because at least I’d picked a short song. Once it ended, I’d had enough time to run to the restroom and cry in there. On the other hand, Shiro had gotten catcalled by an eager, hungry crowd while licking his teeth and humping a mic stand and gyrating his hips all the way through both of his numbers. Winking at me in the middle of the first one made me blush, sure, but Shiro could do that to me without all the foofaraw, and again, it was an upset for me, not him.
> 
> It occurred to me that maybe, he was trying to get attention by sulking in his room. But at the same time, he skipped over, “Careless Whisper,” the song above all possible songs that he was likeliest to play on an infinite loop until everyone else got sick of it and begged him to please listen to something else, which made me feel like he was more likely playing the music for himself alone. It was basically musical masturbation where I’d walked in on him with his dick out and either he was too fucked up to care or he genuinely didn’t mind me listening in. Or he didn’t think I cared enough about him to even bother. But as I chugged my coffee and tried to banish that thought to a distant galaxy it could never return from, I felt like if Shiro still thought I didn’t care enough about him after what I’d done at birthday karaoke, there’d probably never be any getting through to him.
> 
> As we got to noon, I gave Shiro a little while longer, thinking that maybe the music meant he’d come around on his own. Sleeping late was nothing new for him, especially not after a big night, and chemically speaking, his birthday hadn’t even been that. We’d gone out for karaoke, the two of us plus Ryou and Mark, and Shiro’d had a few drinks because he always did and as he’d pointed out while promising us that he was done and he’d have some more water after his fifth Diet Coke-and-Cuervo, it was his birthday. But Ryou being around meant that Shiro hadn’t been allowed to pregame the way he usually did — because if he’d tried to have a few drinks before we left, Ryou likely would’ve noticed. If he’d noticed, then he definitely wouldn’t have liked it and if he’d felt like there was particular need for it, he wasn’t above telling Aunt Satomi. Having Ryou around also meant that Shiro couldn’t take his pills as obviously as he did when it was just me and Mark around to notice or not.
> 
> Granted, Shiro was hardly forthcoming about exactly how much he was using when it was just the three of us, either. But even in the aftermath of Trevor rolling his Dad’s Porsche and coming off the worse in a fight with a skinhead who’d tried to go after two other guys outside a bar — both of which had gotten Shiro prescriptions for painkillers from doctors other than Haxus — he didn’t want his brother to get ideas about his relationship with the opiates that probably would’ve been more accurate than not. He didn’t want Ryou knowing, for instance, that he hadn’t actually been hurt in the accident itself, but he’d spent over twenty-four hours with Maurice before me and Trevor had picked him up. At the ER, Shiro lied to either me or the staff about exactly how much pain he was in and between that and the injuries themselves, he wound up with a scrip for Vicodin, if a much smaller dose than he was used to. After he got stabbed, his biggest complaint was that, instead of pills, he’d gotten artificially cherry-flavored liquid hydrocodone out of respect for his internal organs (or that’s what I wrote down about whatever the actual explanation was).
> 
> By the time their birthday rolled around a few weeks after, Ryou had already figured out that Shiro wasn’t happy about not getting the exact kind of painkillers that he’d wanted out of getting stabbed, and that he’d cared more about that than he did about the part where he’d had a knife in his torso and could have died. Shiro, in turn, had suspicions that Ryou wasn’t buying his line of, “It was worth it because I saved two other guys from getting jumped and who knows what all else, and anyway, the cops got the guy who did it, so it’s no big deal.” But as far as either of us knew, Ryou was in the dark about how Shiro had, “discovered” that you could make what he called, “a pretty tolerable cocktail” by mixing together equal parts tequila and cherry-flavored Vicodin syrup, and Shiro wanted to keep that piece of things intact.
> 
> Personally, I called those mixtures, “one of the nastiest things I’ve ever smelled” and, “probably a one-way ticket to an overdose.” But any time I said either of those things, Shiro only shrugged and said that I didn’t like the feel of Vicodin anyway so I didn’t have to drink with him if I didn’t want to. That was an understatement — given the choice between a concussion and taking another hit of Vicodin ever again, I would hands-down pick the concussion — but at the time, I don’t think he appreciated the full extent of how wrong he was. All that mattered to him, as far as I could tell, was the fact that Vicodin had made me feel so sick, I thought I wanted to die, and the way I’d been getting harsher about how much he was using.
> 
> But I loved the idiot and like fuck was I going to let him chug that shit alone. So, I kept sucking it up and making coffee whenever he decided that it was cocktail time, in case he wound up needing somebody.
> 
> All up, it was no surprise that Shiro was staying in bed past noon, even before you factored in how late we’d been out and the ever-present spectre of Maurice. But as we got to quarter-past the hour, the only reasons that I knew Shiro hadn’t choked on his own puke were the music and the way he periodically groaned before skipping a song that didn’t quite fit with whatever mood he was trying to work today.
> 
> By twenty-some-odd-past, I’d exhausted my ability to fake like I have any capacity for patience. This was fucking stupid, every last goddamn bit of it. Not to devalue everything else that he was going through, because it was horrific, but I was nineteen and an idiot, and even more of a selfish ass than I am now, because as I glared in the direction of his bed, all I could think was that Shiro was not the one who had a right to be upset about how karaoke night had gone. He hadn’t laid his feelings as bare as one can while channeling them through Dolly Parton, only to basically hear, “Well, I wouldn’t have had sex with you multiple times already if I didn’t enjoy it, so that’s a good thing right?” from the guy he loved.
> 
> Screwing up everything I had in me, I threw my notebook down onto the futon and stormed into his room, ready to squall and nag and raise all holy Hell until Shiro got out of bed like somebody who gave a damn about whether he lived or died. And if he didn’t want to do that, then fine. So be it. If he wouldn’t do it himself, then I guessed I’d just have to give enough of a fuck about his continued survival for both of us, the same way I always did.
> 
> “Get up, dumb-ass,” I snapped, and stopped to turn off his music before stomping over to his window. Yanking the curtains open didn’t help much. Whatever sunlight got through the great owl-grey clouds was wan, at best, and said clouds spat up a dusting of late-season snow onto the junk already making a mess of the sidewalks. Behind me, Shiro groaned, and as I plopped down in the window-seat, I didn’t try to hide how I rolled my eyes. I wanted him to see that I was mad at him. “Come on. It’s noon-thirty, and dinner last night doesn’t count. You have to act like an adult and eat something.”
> 
> “I had the cake, didn’t I?” With a whiny little huff, he pulled his comforter up over his head and burrowed in like he meant to out-stubborn me about staying there. He probably did. “So what if my dinner was a salad? You and Ryou got all the fixin’s on that birthday cake—”
> 
> “Yeah, and then you went and threw it up, which is why it doesn’t. Fucking. **Count**. Shiro.”
> 
> That made him jerk the blanket down again and frown at me; I squared my shoulders, set my jaw, and folded my arms over my chest. As we silently stared each other down, I had to tell myself not to get too hung up on the dark circles under his eyes. They were nothing new, either. Despite how much of his days off he tended to spend sleeping, Shiro never seemed to get any meaningful rest and at the moment, I couldn’t afford to be distracted. So what, he was pale and looked like he hadn’t slept in a month. Indulging him about it clearly wasn’t helping, and right that second, if anyone had asked, I would’ve told them that stupid boys crying to yearning-laden Dolly Parton love songs couldn’t tug his heartstrings but treating him like a trophy-cum-whipping boy, like your own personal scapegoat, had apparently won Shiro’s love and loyalty for  Maurice.
> 
> I also couldn’t let him get to me by swallowing guiltily and letting his lip quiver as he mumbled, “I didn’t do that.”
> 
> “Yeah, you did. I followed and I heard you doing it.” I shook out my hair, which wasn’t as long as it’s gotten now but was longer than it had ever been before. Getting it in my face didn’t help me think, but it blew off some of the steam that I was sitting on. Plus, it gave me something to do with my hands when I had to push it back so I could keep glaring at him. “Ryou had to all but force-feed you. Then you vanish into the bathroom for over ten minutes — seriously? You left your concealer on the table like none of us were gonna figure that out? Like I’m too stupid to—”
> 
> “Why are you so upset?” he whined. “I did it to myself, not to you.”
> 
> “Because I believed you when you said you stopped!” I snapped and didn’t hold back with any volume control. Let him cringe, I thought. He worked to earn this, so let him take it. “I defended you so many times to Ryou and Mark and Aunt Satomi. I told them that fainting at work was a fucking wake-up call for you and you were taking it all seriously.”
> 
> “I never asked you to do that for me. So why’d you even bother?” He winced as he dragged himself into sitting up and slumped against his headboard. This, I recognized too well as the hunger headache that he never wanted to acknowledge for what it was. Shoving his comforter away and shucking off his zip-up hoodie gave me a clear view of his arms and chest, and I had to hug myself tighter to keep from audibly gasping.
> 
> There should’ve been nothing to gasp about, since I saw him every day. But it had been a while since I’d seen Shiro’s hot pink Blondie tank top, and as I dragged my eyes over him, I realized that it had been a while since I’d really seen him without at least two layers on his upper body. The sight of him sucker-punched me and I couldn’t remember how to speak. Even without letting a gasp slip out, I dropped my glowering because it was all that I could do to keep standing upright.
> 
> “Mess” would’ve been putting it mildly, what I saw. The muscles in his arms were whipcord tight, straining against his skin even though he wasn’t flexing, or that’s how it looked. As far as I could tell, he had muscle and bone and nothing else. Thanks to how much Shiro had thinned out, his shoulders seemed too broad for him, like he’d gotten cold while Maurice flaunted him at some Nice Event and borrowed the asshole’s clavicle instead of his damn jacket. Although the tank top prevented me from seeing everything, it hung on Shiro’s middle instead of hugging him the way it used to, and the gaping neckline hit him low enough that I could see his collarbone insisting upon itself, stretching his skin tauter than his kneecaps did. They looked about ready to slice clean through his legs.
> 
> That wasn’t even the worst part, and neither were the different marks that I could see staining his tawny skin. There was the gnarled scar on his right shoulder, but fading slowly out of angry red and into exhausted pink, it was almost comforting. Bruises in different stages of healing littered his biceps and what I could see of his chest, some of them looking like he’d gotten hit and others looking like he’d gotten grabbed. Cigarette burns made a constellation, starting beneath his collarbone and dipping low enough that his shirt kept me from seeing the whole picture. But on each side, the mess stopped before his elbows, because Maurice never intentionally fucked up Shiro’s forearms. I guess he figured that any marks there might be harder for Shiro to hide.
> 
> What hurt the worst, though, was the realization that settled on me as I took that picture in: how much effort he’d put into covering this up. Of course, he’d had to work at it. We saw each other practically every day and if nothing else, Shiro knew that I could easily lose track of time while ogling him. He’d teased me about it more than once. Yet, the last time I’d seen him without at least two layers up top had been since before Thanksgiving, I felt certain, and maybe even as far back as Halloween. Whenever I’d shared his bed, he’d gotten in after me and gotten up before I did. He hadn’t let me put my head on his chest unless we wound up snuggling like that accidentally, and he hadn’t let me big-spoon him since before my last birthday. When we’d made out, he’d stayed clothed even when I hadn’t. When we’d had sex—
> 
> “No wonder you never let me top anymore,” I bit out when I had to give myself a break from looking at him. “Easier to justify keeping your shirt on? Or d’you think it’s just easier to distract me when I’m getting fucked?”
> 
> “It’s not your fault, Keith,” he deadpanned. “It can be hard to focus with someone inside of you.”
> 
> Holy shit, I hated the way he phrased that. Clamping my hand down on my elbow felt like the only way to stop myself from smacking him and lowering myself to the same level as Maurice. But, really. Shiro was trying to glare back at me, balling a hand up in his sheets, and letting his knuckles go white while his arm trembled like he had no idea how to stop it. He was getting called out on making himself sick on purpose, on lying to me for months upon months about how he still had trouble with restricting but he wasn’t throwing up anymore but—
> 
> “Who are you trying to impress, Shiro?” I shouted without meaning to but also without feeling sorry. “Your namesake isn’t here to disapprove. You aren’t out somewhere fancy with Maurice. If you’re gonna keep lying to me about everything else, at least skip the euphemisms about what we’ve been doing together. Say it: you’ve been hurting yourself again, you didn’t want me to notice, and that’s why you’ve been fucking me.”
> 
> That accusation made him look at me again, for all I couldn’t tell what his expression meant. His eyes were dark, his brow was knotted, and his lips were pressed so thin that I almost couldn’t see them. Something like hurt flashed across his face, and something else that might have been disbelief. If I’d remembered where my voice had gotten off to, I might’ve asked why it wasn’t enough for him to have me pining over him like some lovesick teenybopper. Why did he have to make me complicit in helping him lie to everyone else who cared about him, too. Where did he get off looking like I was the one hurting him when he’d been tormenting me for months now, being so gentle when we had sex, looking me in the eye and telling me that I was beautiful and special as if he really meant it, dangling the idea that he would ever be in love with me over my head — all so that I wouldn’t notice him getting sicker.
> 
> Worse yet, his ploy had worked. He’d gone full Trainspotting and I hadn’t even noticed.
> 
> “I wasn’t doing that to you,” he said, his voice low and his eyes fixed on me so firmly, my arms broke out in gooseflesh and I had to choke back another gasp. “I did make myself throw up last night. It wasn’t the first time, either. I did stop for a while, and I missed it, but I knew you hated it and I promised you I wouldn’t, so I tried, okay, Keith? Because you hated it—”
> 
> “I hate it for a reason, did you even think about that or what? Did that matter?” I also hated how my voice sounded so desperate and strangled when I wanted to sound angry, but at least I kept looking at him.
> 
> “Of course it mattered, but it wasn’t, like? I didn’t mean to, it’s just?” Shiro gulped and dropped his eyes back to the mattress. With a sigh, he pushed his back further against the headboard and hugged one of his legs to his chest like I hadn’t already seen him. Or maybe he didn’t care that I had initially, but couldn’t handle it anymore. “That night with Maurice, the event at MoCA? That was when it, when I started again. He took me to the Waldorf after? I don’t know what it was. He was upset with me, but it wasn’t any worse than usual? But after he was finished with me, I stumbled to the elevator. I ducked into the restroom off the lobby. I thought I was only gonna cry where he couldn’t see it and get annoyed…”
> 
> Shuddering, he forced himself to look me in the eye again as he said, “I’m sorry, Keith.”
> 
> “I know you are. Just like you were sorry when I caught you the first time.” I hated myself for saying it, but as I slouched and tried not to look away from him, the words kept coming. “And how you were sorry when you passed out on the futon and got annoyed because I was scared you’d maybe died. And how you were sorry for getting mad at me when I said that Maurice cracking your ribs and choking you almost ’til you blacked out didn’t sound like an accident. And how you were sorry for—”
> 
> “Okay, I get it!”
> 
> “Do you, though? Because I can’t tell anymore! I want to believe you, but at this point…” As much as I’d always hated the idea that people who are truly sorry don’t keep making the same mistakes, I couldn’t shake it out of my head, right then. The way he slouched as if shouldering the entire world was the only thing that kept me from going completely silent, because I looked at that and, cringing on the inside, I couldn’t stop myself from telling him, “Anyway, I know what you like. And I’m sorry for caring about you.”
> 
> I don’t remember if I meant that first crack about Maurice or what foods were easier for Shiro to eat when he felt this low or something else. All I know is that he whispered my name and I couldn’t think of anything to say. He spoke up more to say, “Keith, please…” and I bolted for the kitchen. I didn’t know what I’d do if he decided to follow me, because my eyes started stinging as soon as I cracked open the pop-top on a can of condensed chicken noodle soup. They misted over while I added water and put the bowl in the microwave. As I sliced up strawberries how he liked, my dipshit tear ducts decided to make me cry as if I were neck-deep in onions.
> 
> Maybe if I’d sobbed or screamed or wailed, he would’ve come out after me. Whatever he’d lied about, however he’d strung me along like he would ever fall in love with me, whether he’d meant to or not, Shiro couldn’t ignore someone in pain. But no matter how hard those anguished noises clawed at my throat, I refused to let them out. Because this wasn’t about me, anymore. Crunching against the fridge, I let myself sink to the floor and bury my head between my knees, made myself breathe as slowly as I could and clung to the hope that this would keep me from making Shiro worry. He was a wreck and only getting worse; he didn’t need to waste a thought about whether or not I was okay, and I didn’t deserve it. In all likelihood, I never had, and I definitely didn’t now.
> 
> Above my head, the microwave beeped but I hadn’t stopped crying. I gave up on counting how many reminders it gave me before I got myself together and knocked off the weepy bullshit. Felt like long enough to put the soup on for another minute while I splashed cold water on my face and got Shiro a Diet Coke out of the fridge. Once the microwave was done, I salvaged the little translucent orange bottle from behind it. Much as I didn’t want to give Shiro his pills, looking pale and sick like he did could’ve been a sign that I was wrong about him getting into his stash in the middle of the night. It could’ve been a sign that I was wrong about whatever he’d done in the kitchen, like maybe he’d only gotten a drink, alcoholic or not, and I was the one who’d need to apologize for doubting him. Even if I hadn’t said anything aloud, I’d dragged his business out into the open between us and judged him for it, so he deserved a chance to do the same to me.
> 
> Although wasting time was something I couldn’t afford to do right now and the guilt over leaving Shiro by himself was scratching up the inside of my chest so bad, I thought I might actually stick myself with emotion-induced internal bleeding, I let curiosity get the better of me. I held the bottle toward the overhead light and shook it. Trying to guess how many pills Shiro had left in this particular stash would’ve meant more if I’d kept better track of how often he’d dipped into or refilled it. But it seemed like there were more of the pale yellow, oblong bastards left in the bottle than I’d expected. Not that I counted them and gave reality another chance to dash my hopes all over the sidewalk. That’d happened more than enough for me lately.
> 
> Either way, I didn’t know what to make of the state I found the bottle in but couldn’t keep Shiro waiting while I tried to put the puzzle together. I put the bottle and the Coke can in my hoodie’s kangaroo pocket, and sulked back to his room. I tried not to look at him as I handed over the strawberries, soup, and soda. He invited me to sit with him and I agreed but with no intent to do so until I damn well felt like it. Instead, I leaned against the wall by his bedsheet-covered full-length mirror, folded my arms over my chest, and tried not to think about how fucked he had to be feeling to hide the mirror. He’d done it before but not that often.
> 
> Here I was, though, claiming to care about him while refusing, because of my own hurt feelings, to give him the simple human contact that he wanted. My own pathetic feelings didn’t even stack up next to his. He was in love with a monster who treated him like garbage and didn’t want to ever let him go. He was hungrier for pills and tequila than food. If what he’d said the first time I’d caught him making himself sick on purpose still held true, something about purging like that made him feel better, like maybe he wasn’t so completely fucked as he felt or he wasn’t wrong for hoping things might ever stop sucking. He didn’t even know why he was like this because he hated vomiting when it wasn’t self-induced, it knocked him on his ass for hours and made him feel disgusting — but as long as he got to call the shots, it worked magic, which scared him but he had no idea what to do.
> 
> But me? I was a selfish, lovesick idiot who’d resigned himself to the fact that the boy I’d fallen in love with would never love me back, but refused to totally accept it. I was tongue-tied and standing there, probably with a comical look on my face, because the boy I wanted didn’t think anything of lying to me while he hurt himself, didn’t even think I cared about him doing so. If nothing else, I deserved to get cracked on the mouth for even thinking that my problems currently merited consideration.
> 
> More immediately, being at Shiro’s side while he was forcing himself to get the food down, would’ve felt more like I was encroaching on his privacy than the time I’d walked in on him jerking off. After I’d called him out about it, watching him eat felt indecent and if I could get through this without humiliating him any further, maybe it would be easier. Besides, the last thing he needed was to glimpse my face clearly enough to see that I’d been crying. That’d only make him feel worse when my feelings were my fucking problem to deal with, not his, and the parts of this that you could call his fault were things that he shouldn’t have gotten blamed for: anything he’d done to hurt himself without considering how it was also hurting me; his abysmal choice in karaoke songs which he’d probably meant to be hilarious and endearing because he was drunk and it wasn’t like I’d flat out told him how I felt about him; being kind, and sweet, and beautiful, and sad, and creative, and idealistic and caring despite everything he’d been through, and all the other reasons that I’d come up with to justify falling for him when I’d promised not to; etc.
> 
> “Keith,” he started, when he probably got the message that I wasn’t going to. “Are you—”
> 
> “Yes, I can take your dishes to the sink, if you’re done.” I should’ve looked at him, probably. But all I could manage was looking at the floor. “It’s no big deal.”
> 
> “…You don’t have to do that. But it’s also not what I wanted to ask?”
> 
> I couldn’t make heads or tails of his tone, but the pills weighed heavy in my kangaroo pocket, so I took them out and lobbed them over. He caught them fine, and I went back to brooding at the floor like it owed me anything. “Not that I’m in a place to ask for anything? But if you maybe feel like humoring me, please don’t take any unless you’re actually done eating?”
> 
> “Where did you find these?” Shiro sounded fairly gobsmacked, and I wanted so badly to just be angry with him for that, for once again thinking that I didn’t care about him enough to pay even the bare minimum attention to him. Angry is comfortable. Angry is easier for me to handle than any other emotion and it always has been. Angry feels simple and straightforward, even when it isn’t, and it makes you feel like there are simple, straightforward solutions. Angry only falls apart when you start over-analyzing it instead of letting it be what it is, and right there in that second, I would have sucked Maurice’s dick myself if it meant that I could’ve cocooned myself in anger.
> 
> But in that moment, I couldn’t make it happen any more than I could look up from the floor. So, I explained which stash of his I’d taken, and when he clarified that he’d actually meant to ask how I’d known about it, I shrugged. “It’s nothing. I guessed. I got lucky,” I told him, hugging onto myself tighter.
> 
> “Well, look who’s lying now. God, I can’t imagine where you learned that trick. Seriously, what kind of stellar influence…” It had the cadence of a joke without a punchline, and he delivered it in his deadpan, self-deprecating tone that was never funny, no matter what he ever meant by it. With a heavy sigh, he added, “Please, Keith. Just tell me how you knew, I’m not going to judge — God, I’m not in any place to, right?”
> 
> So many easier responses came to mind, and several harder ones, as well. Some piece of my heart screamed at me to tell him that I loved him and damn the consequences. But another part of my brain reminded me that Shiro’s inevitable rejection was the least of our worries, here. If I told him, that would make it real. It would make him deal with my love, even though he deserved so much better and it didn’t need to be his problem and he already had more than enough shit to slog through. Even if Shiro didn’t get sicker and worse off from the added stress of a burden that was not his to bear — which, for the record, was as likely to happen as me waking up in a version of my life where I find my Mom at Java Hut and she knows who I am at a first glance and she wants her miserable screw-up son back in her life after all this time — then we still had to worry about Maurice. Making my love for Shiro real meant Maurice could retaliate, and I didn’t want to learn what shape that retaliation could take.
> 
> After mulling it over for a moment, I said, “Just because I’m a lousy paladin to you doesn’t mean I forgot that promise, okay?”
> 
> As far as my history of shitty explanations goes, this one would rank somewhere in the middle. When Shiro didn’t get it, I couldn’t hold myself back: “Somebody’s gotta look out for you, right? Maybe you didn’t ask me to? But Mark misses things, Ryou’s in Massachusetts, Aunt Satomi’s in California and so are all your cousins. Trevor’s in rehab, Laura moved to Vancouver, your Matt friend exists but he never comes around. You lie to your therapist, you don’t listen to our boss or to his husband, and don’t even get me started on Maurice—”
> 
> “Yeah, no,” Shiro sighed. “I’d rather we didn’t.”
> 
> “So, we’re the only people left who can do the job, Shiro. And obviously? We both suck at looking out for you. But at least I’m trying to, okay?”
> 
> Standing still was getting to me, now. Everything in me itched to do something, anything, because standing around was making me feel like the single most useless son of a bitch in the universe. If I’d had an excuse and a convenient jackass making trouble that needed to get interrupted, I probably would’ve started a fight. It would’ve blown off steam and felt halfway justified. Instead, I scratched at my elbow and looked all over his room for something to latch onto, as long as it didn’t involve looking at Shiro like the adults we nominally were. Noticing that he’d put his empty dishes on the bedside table, I dove in that direction with a mind to take them to the sink and clean them up by hand. He sighed while I fumbled the plate, and by the time I had that salvaged and the bowl resting on top, Shiro was close enough to grab my free wrist. I groaned about letting me do this for him, but cut it short as he curled my fingers around something.
> 
> Yanking away from him, I heard the clatter of pills on plastic. But I still stared at the pill-bottle like it couldn’t possibly be real. The Diet Coke sat unopened on the bedside table, which finally got me to look at Shiro — to gape at Shiro, really. I shook my head because none of the questions that I had wanted to come out right. Every time he tried to swallow his pills dry, even if they were smaller doses than normal, he wound up choking. To hand the bottle back when he obviously hadn’t taken anything? What the fuck was he playing at?
> 
> In the face of whatever kind of disaster I looked like, Shiro shrugged, but respected me enough not to fake a smile. “I don’t want them,” he said, fixing his eyes on me. “Well, I do, but I don’t? I took my dose for today, already… I mean, I could take more, but? I don’t want to. Even if I did? Not like this—”
> 
> “Not like what?” I spat out like the words were exploding out of me. “Not like always? Not when you’re planning to put your toothbrush down your throat—”
> 
> “Not when you’re the one giving them to me, Keith.” He swallowed thickly and as he insistently looked up at me, his lower lip quivered so desperately that my throat coated up with guilt until I felt like I couldn’t breathe. Slouching, Shiro correctly guessed that I wasn’t getting exactly what he meant out of that statement and explained, “You’re not the only person who’s told me that you don’t like how much I’ve been taking or you wish I’d cut back. But you’ve been more vocal than anybody else has, more often than anybody else has…”
> 
> Another shrug and he dragged his hand through his hair, telling me, “I’ve made you complicit in enough, okay?”
> 
> “You’ll get sick,” I pointed out. “Yeah, I wish you’d stop taking them, but you could die if you do that without a doctor, but not Haxus—”
> 
> “I know that it could kill me, Keith. But I can still cut back, just…” Shiro tried to sigh, but it came out as a shudder. His shoulders hunched in on him so much, he looked almost small — which, at his height, was next to impossible to accomplish, even when he looked so thin. “Please get them away from me, Keith? I already took the most that I want to take today, so… please? You can hide them somewhere new, if you want. But I won’t be upset if you do or don’t, as long as you take them away from me now, before I…”
> 
> Maybe Shiro had more on his mind, but he didn’t need to say anything else. I got what he meant by all of that: in all likelihood, Haxus was holding out on him again, and maybe it really was making Shiro take cutting back more seriously, but mostly, he needed to make his stashes last as long as possible until Maurice decided to let his not-quite-husband give Shiro back his meds. They’d done this to him before and since it invariably got Shiro to crack and apologize to Maurice for things that he hadn’t done wrong or let Maurice have more of his way than usual, I saw no reason for them to ever stop.
> 
> When I took his dishes to the sink, I put the bottle back behind the microwave. No matter how he took it when he found them, I wanted it to be a kindness or something like one. The closest that I could see, under our shitty circumstances. Whether I wanted him taking them or not, I didn’t want Shiro dead, and really taking his pills away would’ve all but guaranteed that. Sure, letting Shiro have them wasn’t exactly helping, either, but he wasn’t really going to quit the junk, as far as I could tell, and if he ever did, he’d need a doctor — something that I am definitely not, someone whose training I can’t compensate for by loving Shiro like I do.
> 
> Whatever else I was currently feeling about him and us and myself, though, Shiro didn’t need to mewl out after me, like I wasn’t coming back, like I’d ever abandon him while he was in this kind of state. I guess I understand why he felt like he had to, but at the same time, I wasn’t going to leave him by himself when he was such a mess. Even if he wasn’t going to OD, he needed someone with him and I’m such a selfish rat that, for all I cared about him being well or something like it, I also cared that him needing me while trying to cut back was the closest I would ever get to having Shiro love me back. Sitting next to him by the headboard, I said nothing. Couldn’t think of anything to say when I had too many different feelings and too many desires vying for my attention all at once. Besides, this probably had to go down on Shiro’s terms, whatever this was and if it was actually going down at all.
> 
> At first, his terms were the same old apologies that I’d heard so many times before, tumbling out of Shiro’s mouth in a litany of words that I knew he meant but still felt impossibly betrayed by: “I’m sorry for lying to you, I’m sorry being like this, I’m sorry for not being better, I want to be better and I’m sorry for not knowing how, I’m sorry that you didn’t sign up for anything like what I’m into when you moved in, I’m sorry for making you deal with all of this, I’m sorry Keith, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…”
> 
> After a while, I put my hand on his thigh and tried not to pay attention to how his Maleficent tattoo had moved around as his skin adjusted to the diminished state of his legs. Giving Shiro a gentle squeeze — as gently as I could manage when I wanted to grab him by both shoulders, shake him, and cry that he couldn’t keep pretending he didn’t have a problem and for the love of God, he deserved so much better than how Maurice kept treating him, and even if he didn’t ever love me back, then couldn’t he at least tell me how to help him, since I didn’t trust my instincts anymore and only relied on them because I didn’t know what else to do — I tried to come up with something I could tell him. Because he was miserable, and sick, and he deserved to hear something from me. He was pouring his heart out for me, even if he never kept the tacit promises, and it didn’t matter how much better he was than me with words. You don’t listen to someone you love apologize like this and then say nothing.
> 
> “God, my song choice last night couldn’t have been better for the two of us…” I said under my breath. “I wanted to be mad at you, but well? Here you come again, and there goes my resolve. Like I ever even had any, when it comes to you…”
> 
> “You…” He started, in a voice so small and cracked that it made my breath catch in my throat. “What did I… Why did you…”
> 
> I took a deep breath and shuddered before I could tell him, “I wanted to be mad at you for scaring me like this again…”
> 
> I could’ve brought up karaoke. I could’ve brought up his drunken reminder that I was a friend with benefits to him and nothing else, and based on the songs that he’d chosen, he wanted more of those benefits than I already gave him. I could’ve been petty and vindictive and cruel and hit him below the belt, and on so many different levels, I wanted to. He’d made me cry the night before, and I hate crying more than almost anything else in the world, especially when it’s crying from pain and more so when the pain doesn’t even have a physical cause that can get patched up if someone knows what they’re doing. Tear ducts may have their uses and maybe we couldn’t make our eyes work without them, but sobbing like a pathetic, heartbroken baby? It’s humiliating. It’s one of the single most humiliating things that I can think of, even if no one sees you do it. God help me, as much as I loved Shiro then — as much as I still love him now — I wanted so badly to hurt him in return for hurting me.
> 
> But as he tried to puzzle out what I was really telling him, and as I tried to decide if I wanted to say anything else, he turned to look at me better. Without any product keeping it fluffed up, his black hair wilted over his forehead, and while the drawn, more pronounced arch of his cheekbones made him look way older than twenty-three, the lost glimmer in his eyes belonged to someone much younger and it yearned for something that I didn’t know if anyone could give him but if anybody could, that guy definitely wasn’t me. On one hand, you had the adult Shiro had been pretending to be since before he’d even finished high school: charismatic, capable, composed, completely in control of himself at all times, unshakable from any purpose that he set his mind to, unconcerned with anything but his music and his fun, unafraid of anything, not even the increasing threat of his own death.
> 
> On the other, you had the youth and inexperience that were catching up to Shiro in the worst way possible because he was in over his head and he had no idea what to do to help himself or how to ask, and he wanted love that he didn’t feel like he deserved, and he felt like he could change Maurice by loving him enough to dig out some hidden inner goodness to match how handsome he was on the outside, and he considered himself a failure for not managing to do that yet when the problem was Maurice, and he was scared, and when he thought no one was listening, he still cried himself to sleep about wanting his Mom back or feeling like he was letting down his Dad.
> 
> On the dorsal fin (since I’m kinda running out of hands here), you had my heart, shattering into pieces like a magic mirror, because I loved him so much that it felt like how he’d described the pain of being stabbed, and while I didn’t know what to do for him or any way that I could help, I knew for certain that I didn’t even deserve the chance because he hadn’t meant to hurt me and, in all likelihood, wasn’t aware that he even had, but even after breaking a promise and getting us in this mess, I’d wanted to exact such stupid, petty vengeance because he’d made me cry the night before.
> 
> Which is something that I never wanted Shiro to know about — I wanted this to be out there in the open even less than I wanted him to know that I was in love with him — so instead, I admitted, “There’s nothing I can do to help you, is there? I want to, Shiro… If there’s anything I could do for you, I would, but everything I do, it only seems to make things worse…”
> 
> “Keith…” he said, reaching for my hand. He squeezed my wrist instead, but only because I shifted my position. “Keith, please… It isn’t you, it’s me, because you help, you do, just… Please…”
> 
> He never clarified what he meant by that, “Please” but in his defense, I didn’t ask. Maybe I should have. There are a lot of things that have happened between me and Shiro that I’m realizing I’ve taken for granted and should’ve asked about more forthrightly. For example, my assumption that he probably didn’t mean anything more by this particular, “Please” than, “Please stay with me, Keith. Please kiss me, please let me put my fingers in your hair while you suck on my lip, please don’t tell me that you miss the godawful taste of my Dr. Pepper lip-chap because it’s gotten so familiar to you now, just kiss me softly and share the air in our lungs as if we only have one set between the two of us. Please let me crawl into your lap, even though I’m six inches taller than you and heavier but nowhere near as much as I should be. Please touch me gently because I’m hungry for more reasons than how little I’ve been eating and how much of that little I’ve been throwing up or overworking at the gym to punish myself for needing anything. Please accept that I don’t _love you_ love you but be here for me anyway because I need someone like you, someone whose love, to me, is comprehensible and like a balm instead of a poke in the eye with a white-hot, sharpened iron stick.”
> 
> I want to kick myself for writing that, because it almost makes what happened sound poetic. But it wasn’t. Not unless you love reading poetry where one beautiful, sad, and hurting boy gets kissed until his lips feel like a pair of bruises, kissed by another boy who could be called a feral cat but only if you wanted to insult feral cats, who’s too sharp to be an explosion but too incendiary to be a knife, who’s always angry and selfish and hungry for something that he can’t identify but it doesn’t matter because he keeps trying and he never finds it anyway so maybe he’s just meant to starve. And the sad boy doesn’t love the angry boy, but he loves Love, he loves affection, he loves all these soft things that his offscreen-lurking Big Bad Wolf doesn’t want to let the sad boy have so now he’s ravenous for a touch that doesn’t hurt, a caress that isn’t laced with poison, a kiss that’s truly just a kiss and not some manner of demand, or threat, or subtle reminder that the Big Bad Wolf does not believe in sharing the sad boy’s love or loyalty.
> 
> That really isn’t too much better, either. I blame myself, because I’m a selfish mess who wants for that afternoon to have meant something after all, who doesn’t want all of the pain wrapped up in it to be meaningless, who wants it to be something more than, “the last time that Shiro let me top, at least in that my cock went in his ass and not his mouth, and I was the one who got to be inside of him and not the other way around, also this was second-to-last time that we had more than making out or blow-jobs before I lost him and thought it was forever.”
> 
> Because I know it  wasn’t more than that, but maybe if it were, then maybe the pain isn’t simply torture that I have to ignore or else it overwhelms me until I feel like slowly bleeding to death would be a much more pleasant fate. Which isn’t on Shiro or anything that he did, because if I hadn’t let him in, it probably would’ve been someone else. If it weren’t someone else who I let in, then I would’ve stayed touch-starved and love-hungry and probably fucked up something then found myself either dead or arrested, and given the state of this country’s prisons, I’m not sure which option is supposed to be the worse one. But however you wanna slice it, the fact is that there’s something wrong with me and I don’t need anybody reminding me of that, I don’t need to focus on it because it can’t be fixed, we just have to treat it like the eponymous Dunwich Horror: lock it in the shed and periodically feed it a fucking cow — or in my case, feed it a, “questionable coping mechanism” because I do love cheeseburgers but they’re not as viscerally satisfying as putting my fist through a piece of glass or picking a fight with someone based on the flimsiest justification.
> 
> Not that I’ve done most of those questionable things in a while. I’ve got at least two people (maybe as many as five) who’d be incredibly disappointed in me for that, now. Plus, since I guess Shiro wants to have me around now that he’s back in my life, I have the one who wasn’t disappointed when I pulled stunts like that back in Chicago but he’s sober, these days, so he probably would be disappointed now. And I don’t know which outcome’s worse, but disappointing them feels like maybe everything I ever heard growing up was right, maybe I’m the reason why so many people I’ve loved have left me behind, because the Fair Folk took the real Keith Sarkance Kogane and left behind a Changeling child (me), or because I’m some other kind of monster on the inside, or because I’m empty and broken and I’ll never be worth the effort that it takes to love me — and I’m sorry, but I don’t get what’s so wrong about NOT wanting to have to feel all that.
> 
> You might’ve been right in telling me that I have some walls up, Ryner. But I was saying about me and Shiro.
> 
> I don’t remember which one of us kissed the other first, that afternoon. I don’t know if we could tell back then, either. All I know is that we didn’t plan on anything, and we both said that we wanted to have that sex, but I don’t know how much I trust either of us. Even if Shiro would’ve been less able to consent while detoxing, he was still on a not-insignificant dose of opiates, and as far as I could tell, he was desperate to feel loved, even if it was only in the pathetic, self-serving ghost of love that he could get from me. As for me, I wanted him to feel better because truly getting better seemed like it was asking for too much. I wanted him to have hope that things weren’t going to stay so awful. I wanted him to understand, even just once and no matter what I had to do to get through to him, that I loved him so much and I was so scared for him that I didn’t care if he loved me back or even if he sent me away, as long as he kept fighting like I knew (wanted to believe) he could, as long as he refused to give in to his own darkness.
> 
> Except that makes it seem so noble, and as Shiro lowered himself onto my cock, about the only thing I felt for sure was base.
> 
> Because the boy I loved was stuck in a living Hell, looking like a complete wreck because that’s what he was, and I wanted to fuck him in whatever ways he thought he wanted, hoping that he might love me back. Because I wanted to feel better after he’d answered a love song with sexual innuendo at karaoke night and he’d been lying to me for months about how badly off he was getting, and I shouldn’t have cared about him owing me any apologies but I still did. Because I wanted him to take it back and just slap me in the face instead since that would’ve hurt so much less than a clear, public reminder that what we had was platonic and sexual, but not romantic. Because I wanted to let myself believe, even for a single fucking second, that the forehead kisses weren’t just teasing and the smiles he only meant for me were genuinely fond, not only in my imagination, and maybe, I wasn’t crazy for looking at how he held me while I cried after watching Casablanca and Brokeback Mountain, and feeling like I’d found a home in his arms, and hoping that Shiro would ever want someone like me.
> 
> Please don’t ask me what I mean by that, because I’m not rightly sure. The best I’ve got is, “someone who’d have enough moral fiber to turn his best friend down when fucking Shiro right that second had a serious chance of enabling certain self-destructive patterns of his, and someone who’d have enough strength to stay away when Shiro waltzed back into his life from out of nowhere, even though he’s apparently been within three or four degrees of separation from me for a while now, and wouldn’t have texted him because after everything I’ve done, how much I want him should not matter; the real act of love would be letting him go.”
> 
> In other words, exactly what I implied: someone who deserves his love. Someone who is not like me.
> 
> Anyway, I hope that this is enough of, “personal connection” to my material for you, Ryner. Are you satisfied? Have I opened a vein and bled on the page sufficiently? Can I spend the rest of the semester writing shit that actually matters more than my bullshit personal problems, or do I need to humiliate myself in a workshop before you let me write what I think is important? Do I need to word-vomit all over them or literally bleed on something? Because if this is the kind of garbage that you want me to write for the rest of the semester, then maybe we should cut the mutual frustration and just have you fail me now.

*** * ***

Fortunately, Hunk’s slightly improvised take on ratatouille is easy enough to eat while working. It’s not quite what Keith _expected_ , but in fairness, all he knows about ratatouille is the Disney/Pixar movie. Unless Hunk was going to pull a talking rat out of who-knows-where, he was never going to meet Keith’s expectations, and all things considered, Keith is glad that he didn’t. Hunk’s non-rat-infested version of dinner is infinitely better than a version with rats ever could’ve been.

When dinner’s over and Shiro and Lance have done the dishes, the kitchen becomes, for all intents and purposes, Hunk And Keith’s Space. Not that they’re opposed to having anyone else in there with them, but Keith is writing and apparently, Hunk is _persnickety_ about making his cupcakes without any interference, so it’s easier on everyone for Lance, Pidge, and Shiro to go play _Mario Kart_ in Lance’s room. At least, they say that they’re playing _Mario Kart_ in Lance’s room and Keith doesn’t know enough about that game or any of their habits in playing it to question them. Anyway, he and Hunk are comfortable working in silence until Hunk’s cupcakes are in the oven, then they’re comfortable _sitting_ in silence while Keith keeps writing and waits for the tea Hunk made to steep.

—Or _Keith_ is comfortable sitting in silence with Hunk. About fifteen minutes after bringing Keith his mug, Hunk is fidgeting and sighing like he wants to whine instead, or maybe like he wants to ask Keith something but doesn’t want to throw off his groove, or _maybe_ like he’s not sure if asking would be okay or not. It’s hard to tell, when Hunk seems to be having at least four different emotions at the same time. But finally, Keith sighs and asks him what’s wrong.

“Oh what, me? No, nothing’s wrong with _me_ , man, I just…” Hunk slouches onto his elbows, leaning toward Keith with a hopeful smile. “Are you _suuuuure_ you don’t want to let me shower you in birthday cupcakes? Because it’s seriously no trouble. I mean, I’m just glad Shiro was totally behind the idea instead of asking me to make them at work and give them to you separately, y’know?”

“I can guess, yeah,” Keith says, scrunching his face at a place where he tried to cram too much onto his notebook’s page. “And I’m glad, too. If you knew what he did to the birthday cake when he and Ryou turned twenty-three—”

“Threw it up in the bathroom right after and you called him out on that the next day?” Hunk tries to grin sheepishly when Keith peers up at him, but considering the subject currently at hand, he can’t make himself look too much more than insecure, like he’s hoping Keith isn’t mad at him. He relaxes a bit when Keith nods, and as Keith turns back to the laptop, Hunk tells him, “Sorry, I mean… Shiro didn’t name you specifically or anything? When he told me that story? But it was a while ago, like, the three of us had only been living together for a couple months, so you weren’t in the picture, and I get home, Shiro’s crying on the sofa.”

Dammit, Keith knows he should be focusing, but the essay feels even stupider and more useless than it already is when Keith holds it up to Hunk telling him this story. He guesses that he must look other than okay, because Hunk’s first move is to reassure him that, “Shiro hadn’t done anything that night, or that’s what he said and it didn’t _look_ like he had? But at first, I thought like maybe he slipped up sobriety-wise, again? Or maybe he felt like hurting himself? Which I guess I wasn’t completely _wrong_ about, but I didn’t know the eating disorder part at the time, like I had some suspicions? But I also didn’t want to put him on the spot about it, right? Because I know the depression makes it harder for him to eat, too, and so does the PTSD, so it could’ve been something else and I didn’t want to… I don’t know, hurt him by making the wrong suggestion or anything?”

Hunk shrugs, and Keith says nothing. After how he’s handled this subject before, he likely doesn’t have the right to say anything.

“ _Anyway_ ,” Hunk picks up again, when he realizes that Keith isn’t going to comment. “He told me he wanted to throw up, and I thought maybe he was just sick in an, ‘ate something that disagreed with him’ kinda way? But then he told me the twenty-third birthday cake story and said that somebody important to him called him out on it, and well? The options were Ryou, your old roomie, and as it turns out, you. If it’d been Ryou or Mark calling him out, Shiro would’ve said that. So, simple process of elimination says…”

“I don’t know why you try to act like you’re _just_ the relatively well-adjusted member of the band,” Keith says off-handedly, turning back to his typing. “I mean, from what I’ve seen? Yeah, you totally are. But you’re pretty sharp, y’know? You could totally bill yourself as the smart guy, if you wanted.”

“Yeah, maybe, but then Pidge might feel like I’m stepping on her thing?” Hunk laughs, for all Keith isn’t entirely certain why. But while he bangs out the rest of the scene he’s on, Hunk explains for him, “We actually talked all of this out, once. Shiro’s the leader and the heartthrob, obviously. But also, he’s like the heart of the group? He’s our gentle-punk Justin Timberlake, except he’s prettier, and angstier, and Japanese—”

“Yeah, because Shiro is actually _hot_ , and Justin Timberlake looks like a lactose intolerant four-year-old puked up half-digested cottage cheese in a musty, spunk-crusted tube-sock.” Keith only looks up again when he realizes Hunk is laughing. “…Dude, it wasn’t _that_ funny.”

“I think it’s _hilarious_ ,” Hunk says in a tone of voice that makes Keith pretty sure that he won’t win any argument about this. “But yeah, Shiro’s the heartthrob. He’d probably be the bad boy, if he could brood properly when he’s onstage, but performing is too much fun for him to brood like that. Plus, he’s too _nice_ for that. Either way, Pidge is the brains and the sort of socially awkward nerdy one? Lance wants to be the hunk—”

“But that’s _your_ name—”

“No, I mean like the, _‘I’m too sexy for my shirt, so sexy it hurts’_ kinda hunk—”

“ _Really_? I mean, yeah, he’s good-looking enough? But he has more _personality_ than all those cookie-cutter sexy guys—”

“Yeah, I know. I kinda wish he valued more about himself than whether or not other people call him hot? I think maybe he just doesn’t like being labeled the goofball or class clown all the time, y’know?” Focused as Keith is on the screen, he can hear the concerned and slightly let-down shrug in Hunk’s voice. “I don’t really get what’s so bad about being funny and making people laugh? But I think it’s probably got a lot to do with how the rest of us have some kind of niche, and all his siblings and cousins have like their one thing that everybody _knows_ they’re good at, and it’s not like Lance isn’t good at things or he doesn’t bring anything to the table because that’s not true—”

“Don’t tell him I told you this?” Keith glances around to make sure that Lance isn’t around to listen in. The door whose brightly colored sign labels it, _“Lance’s Room”_ remains closed while the bathroom’s door hangs open, so Keith keeps typing and says, “But one of my favorite songs that you guys played last week turned out to be one of his. And Shiro already knows I think this, but some of your songs? Lance really tied them together. With his bass _and_ his backup vocals. Mostly his bass, but that’s like? People always take the bassist for granted, but if they didn’t have the bass, the songs would suck. Have you ever heard those edits where they took the bass out of Fall Out Boy songs? They’re _terrible_.”

“I _know_ , right! That’s what I keep trying to tell him when he gets down on himself like that, but…” Hunk makes a noncommittal noise, the vocal equivalent of a shrug. “Lance usually just gets like, ‘Well, that’s great if your name is Pete Wentz, but mine obviously _isn’t_.’”

Shaking his head, Keith doesn’t bother acting like he’s not rolling his eyes over this, because it sounds _exactly_ like Lance, as Keith knows him, as well as sounding completely idiotic. “But why does he want to be Pete Wentz anyway? I mean, okay, cool. He’s rich and famous, and a bassist, and I guess he’s a cool guy in real life? And let’s be honest, he’s pretty hot. But Lance is a good-looking bassist, you guys have fans, and if Pete Wentz is half as cool as everybody thinks he is, then he wouldn’t tell Lance to emulate him in the first place. He’d tell Lance to _just be Lance_.”

“You _get me_ , oh my God — you just get me _so hard_ , Keith!” There comes a loud sigh of relief, and when Keith peers up again, Hunk is practically vibrating with excitement, clapping quietly but in a manner that kinda reminds Keith of a seal, that’s how excited Hunk is. “But anyway, if you ask me? Lance is the goofball and the cute one, and that’s actually really cool, but he’s got a complex about that. And then I’m the sweetheart, which is also awesome. And since Matt is the tech-wizard who makes us all sound our best, and Ryou is the punk rock band version of a soccer mom, you wouldn’t even need to be _in the band_ to be our brooding bad boy with a heart of gold?”

Keith hums and gives Hunk a little shrug. “That depends on me having a heart of gold, though, doesn’t it.”

“Aww, baloney. You totally have a heart of gold.” He waits for Keith to look up again before, then smiles gently. “Call it an educated guess, okay? If you were a total heel, you wouldn’t have four-and-a-half out of five of us convinced that you’re alright.” At Keith’s bemused frown, Hunk explains, “Pidge likes you, I like you, Shiro _really_ likes you, Ryou thinks you’re okay but also admits that he hasn’t seen you in a while, Matt hasn’t met you so his opinion doesn’t count right now, and Lance is coming around about you but being stubborn about saying so.”

Which is nice enough to hear, Keith guesses, but he’s still relieved when Hunk’s oven goes off and calls him back into action. He’s even more relieved when Hunk decides to wait out the cupcakes’ cooling period by joining the others in Lance’s room for _Mario Kart_. The biggest relief comes when Keith fires off his email to Ryner at 11:39 PM. Then, there’s just the after-writing maintenance — Keith sends a copy to himself as well and tosses another onto one of his flash drives, _just in case_ one of them gets lost or ends up corrupted — and Keith lets himself face-plant into his forearms. He’s worked hard for three days running. He’ll go home soon, but he’s allowed to put his head down for a little while.

Keith doesn’t rouse until 12:21 AM, when someone jostles his shoulder. Blearily, he squints up at Shiro’s face, all frowning and knotted up in something that, even yawning as deeply as he is, Keith recognizes as concern.

“What’d I do? It is too late? I can go now if you want,” he says, which makes Shiro frown at him harder.

“You need to _sleep_ ,” Shiro points out and doesn’t even chuckle when Keith says that he could sleep just fine back at his place. Once he’s shut the laptop, Shiro reaches for Keith’s hair, and pouts when Keith gently bats his hand away.

“I haven’t had a shower since Thursday morning and I spent two nights crashing on a _really_ suspect couch,” Keith explains flatly. “My hair’s probably _gross_.”

“Will you stay if I let you take a shower?” Shiro isn’t making sense. The words make sense individually, but Keith can’t make sense of the picture that they’re adding up to. The most he’s got idea-wise is that if Hunk, Lance, Pidge, and Rover are splitting up two beds between the four of them, then that leaves Shiro as the only one who sleeps alone — except Shiro’s not like that and it doesn’t fit the concern in his eyes. “Keith, please… I want you to stay.”

For all Keith feels like he should argue more and clear the Hell out already, it’s annoyingly difficult when Shiro’s standing there and looking so _upset_. It’s even worse when Hunk wanders out of Lance’s room and joins Shiro in frowning at Keith until he agrees to clean up and sleep over. How the Hell this is fair, Keith has no idea, but he can’t deny that he feels a bit less _whateverish_ and _gross_ and _repulsive_ and _blah_ when he stumbles out of the bathroom, showered off and in a (relatively) clean shirt and shorts. He intends to go for the cupcakes next, as if this will somehow magically prove how fine he is.

Instead, it ends with Shiro steering him toward a bedroom, and then into a bed.

At least this could be worse, Keith guesses. Shiro’s gentle about gripping onto Keith’s shoulders and nudging him around. Once Keith’s in the bed, Shiro crouches by the edge of the mattress, waiting for him to lie down. Keith’s fine with that, but he’s expecting Shiro to join him, rather than simply pushing Keith’s damp hair back off his forehead, telling Keith that he’s already plugged in his phone for him so it’ll get charged up, and asking when Keith needs to leave for campus in the morning. Which is all fine, and Keith isn’t ungrateful that Shiro’s looking out for him like this — or anyway, he doesn’t _want_ to be ungrateful — but when Shiro tries to stand up and leave, Keith catches him by the t-shirt sleeve.

For a moment, all he can do is pout at Shiro and tug his sleeve and wait for him to get the message. But he doesn’t, and dimly, Keith is aware that words would probably help them out here. Blinking around Shiro’s shoulder, he catches a glimpse of Lance, but Keith can only tell that Lance is watching him and Shiro quite intently. Maybe hopefully, but from this distance, Keith just can’t tell. Sighing, Keith tugs at Shiro’s sleeve again and makes himself look Shiro in the eye.

“ _Stay_?” he says, curling his fingers tighter in the fabric and hating how meek he sounds. “Shiro, please? I want you to.”

Even if he weren’t so tired, Keith’s not sure he could read Shiro’s expression halfway decently, much less interpret what the Hell Shiro feels like it means. His lower lip is quivering and his eyes get dewy, if not quite misted over. But he’s smiling as he pushes Keith’s hair back again, and he nods as he says, “Of course. I’ll stay as long as you want me to.”

As Lance comes to shut the door for them, Keith could swear that he’s on the receiving end of a wink and a thumbs up. But as he curls up to Shiro’s side and drops his head onto Shiro’s chest, Keith could not possibly care less. Not even the weak protests from his higher brain — the reminders that Shiro deserves better and this can’t last between them — barely touch Keith’s mind and melt away at the sound of Shiro’s contented sigh. The only things that matter right now are Shiro’s arm curling around Keith’s shoulders, Shiro’s lips brushing against his forehead, and Shiro being here with Keith when he wakes up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ……I am very, very sorry for this chapter. Not even just for Keith or Shiro or their choices in particular, but for the entire chapter in general. I won’t promise that the next one is going to be any better, since I think that’s probably debatable? But at least we’re going to get out of Keith’s head for a while and into Hunk’s instead? ………Yay? Maybe? ♡
> 
> In the meantime: Keith’s somewhat questionable karaoke night song choice was Dolly Parton’s **“[Here You Come Again](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bflkeWVTNk0)”** — and Shiro’s, “equally questionable but for very different reasons” choices will come up next time.


	11. Hunk Garrett and the “cwrt 427 - kogane midterm.docx” of Secrets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Content warnings for this chapter:** abuse, manipulation, and gaslighting (more discussion of Shiro’s relationship with Sendak); eating disorders and addiction/substance abuse; Shiro’s PTSD and some of its different manifestations; and there’s one bit in here where Shiro feels like he is explaining some aspects of his namesake Grandfather’s behavior and Lotor’s, while Lance feels like Shiro is making excuses for them, and neither of them is entirely right or entirely wrong.
> 
> ……And this is a less pressing content note, but if you make it through this chapter without screaming at Hunk, Keith, or Shiro at least once, then you really deserve a special award for patience. I recommend cookies, or whatever you personally enjoy treating yourself with. As usual, I am very sorry for all of them, but obviously, I’m not sorry enough to just have them make better choices yet. But they’re getting there. Or working on it, at least.

“Hey, can I ask you something, Hunkules? Aside from that question, I mean?”

Swiveling his desk-chair around, Hunk scrunches up his nose at Lance. “Well, what’s the actual question about?” he says. “I mean, the answer probably isn’t, ‘No,’ but if you’re asking first for once instead of just dropping the question on me, I’m kinda like… Let’s call it, ‘Concerned’?”

Toying with his plushie Vaporeon, Lance nods. “Yeah, okay, that’s fair…”

Lance doesn’t even think about that, but once he’s said it, he slumps against Hunk’s headboard with his long, impossibly skinny legs splayed every whichaway like they’re sixteen again and, fresh off another growth spurt, Lance has no clue what to do with his body. Which isn’t, in and of itself, a bad thing? But Pidge decided to claim Lance’s bed for herself and Rover while Shiro was dead asleep with Keith nuzzled up against his chest when Hunk went to check on them. This leaves Lance sharing Hunk’s bed, just like they’ve done since they were six and shared each other’s sleeping bags after getting scared at a slumber party. They’re comfortable with this arrangement because it’s the same thing that they’ve done for over fifteen years.

Except six-year-old Hunk didn’t have to silently, constantly remind himself _not to check his best friend out._

Blushing, Hunk turns back to his computer, but only so he can shut it down for the night. It’s kinda late anyway and if Lance has something big on his mind — and he probably does, since he isn’t even sighing right now, much less _saying_ anything — then Hunk wants to give Lance his full attention. By the time he’s ready to get in bed, Lance is still staring at the ceiling, drumming his fingertips on the mattress so softly that it’s barely audible, and God, Hunk _shouldn’t_ let his eyes linger on Lance right now? Aside from all the other problems that come from having some kind of unknown feelings for your best friend, Lance has a disadvantage right now. Namely: his Adderall’s wearing off, so Hunk could get naked and Lance might still get distracted because he thought he saw a squirrel out the window. Checking Lance out while he’s like this is probably taking advantage of the situation or, worse, of _him_.

But Lance’s Wonder Woman boxer-briefs cling to his thighs like maybe he bought the wrong size, and skinny or not, Lance’s legs are gorgeous. Warm brown, and toned but not so much that it’s overwhelming or makes him look unhealthy, and jeez, they stretch up to the Heavens. Hunk would peg Lance for an actual dancer, not just the best dancer in the band, if he didn’t know better. Even seeing Lance’s legs like this makes Hunk hate October and its weather for taking away Lance’s excuse to wear cut-off shorts.

“Hey!” Lance shocks Hunk around with a quick, sharp clap, then smirks at him. “What’cha thinkin’, man? Hmm?”

“Uh, making you your own batch of cupcakes, no sharing allowed?” Hunk says the first thing that comes to mind and his cheeks flush warmer as he forces a grin. He isn’t even _really_ lying, since he’d bake Lance pretty much anything he could ask for as long as they didn’t go all _Sweeney Todd_ about it. But Lance is frowning like he has no idea where Hunk’s going with this, so Hunk shrugs. Kicks out a nervous chuckle. “I mean, your Mom’s gonna be mad at me if she thinks you’re too skinny when we go home for Christmas? Like, she trusts me to look out for her baby, and if you’re too skinny, it’s like I’m not doing my job, yeah?”

“Mami _always_ thinks that I’m too skinny,” Lance points out, rolling his eyes. “I mean, it’s not just me, either. Like, she thinks Marimar, Naldo, and Yoselyn are too skinny. She thinks Matt and Pidge and Shiro are too skinny. She thinks Plaxum and Shay are too skinny. She thinks you’re too skinny. She hasn’t met Ryou or Keith, but she’d probably think they’re too skinny because she thinks that _everyone_ —”

“Wait, _me_?” Hunk wrinkles his nose and pushes both hands into his belly-fat. When Lance shrugs, it’s everything Hunk can do not to sigh or glare at him. But he lets himself roll his eyes, jostling this thick roll of chub with both hands. “I mean, I may not know _how much_ I’m clocking in at because you keep hiding the scale—”

“Well, I’ve got two good, important reasons for that. One of them’s cuddling with a sleep-deprived emotional disaster area who has a really ugly haircut. And the other one’s sitting over there by his stupid desk _instead_ of cuddling _me_.” Lance quirks his shoulders and both eyebrows like he’s begging Hunk to argue with him.

Which, of course, Hunk can’t. He can only try not to sulk too much as he tells Lance, “I’m just saying, man: I’m not exactly _small_ —”

“Yeah, I know. Which is why you’re way better for _cuddling me_ than—”

“So why does your Mom say I’m too skinny? Like, how can she look at all this and think—”

“Because she doesn’t mean it _literally_!” Sighing in so much annoyance that Hunk feels some of it secondhand, Lance slouches and hugs himself. “Okay, remember how Shiro explained it, how he can sometimes know objectively that he isn’t fat but still feels like it anyway? But when he has a day like that, it’s ‘cause he has something else going on feelings-wise and he has to sort it out?”

It’s Hunk’s turn to have no clue where his best friend thinks he’s going with this, but once he nods in as much understanding as he has right now, Lance jumps right back in with, “Mami saying anybody’s skinny only means she wants to take care of them. And she’s _teasing_ about all that, ‘Look out for my baby’ whatever, ‘cause she knows you spoil the shit outta me. Now, are you gonna get your butt over here and cuddle me or am I gonna have to drag you to bed?”

At least that part’s easy enough to grasp.

Sighing, Hunk tries to roll his eyes but ends up smiling at Lance a bit too much to seem like he’s exasperated. But once he’s flicked off the lights and gotten in bed, he and Lance slip right into their ever-familiar arrangement: legs tangled together, with Lance on his side, whippet-skinny stomach nestled up against Hunk’s belly; he tucks his head on Hunk’s shoulder and drapes an arm over Hunk’s chest while Hunk holds him closer, one-armed but no less protective. For a moment, Lance wriggles around and Hunk has to bite his lip and think of dead kittens or gross Youtube videos or Shiro burning down the kitchen, because _God_ , Lance is _writhing against him_ , and that would be bad enough if Hunk knew how he felt about it? But as it stands, Hunk’s hand squeezes Lance’s shoulder without him giving it permission to do so, and Hunk has no idea why his heartbeat’s picking up, but maybe Lance will just go to sleep or—

Except Hunk softly blurts out, “So, what did you wanna ask me about? Before we got all… y’know, _us_?”

“You mean before we acted like magpies in a room full of shiny claptrap?” Lance snickers like he hasn’t used that simile about a gazillion times since coming up with it in middle school. But then his whole body seems to drool and he nuzzles closer into Hunk’s side. “I just… Keith asked me to keep some stuff secret from Shiro, and I _have_ , but… I don’t know if I feel good about that? Not, like? I promised, so I _should_ keep it hush-hush, but I dunno? Something doesn’t feel _right_ about this?”

Brow crinkling, Hunk rubs at Lance’s arm. “Well, what’d he ask you not to tell? If you’re allowed to tell _me_?”

“He’d probably say I’m not but he only _specified_ Shiro, so…”

Bless him, Lance is trying to sound like his usual, energetic, devious self, and Hunk wants to let him think that he’s succeeding. But Lance’s voice comes out small and tight, with the quiver he only gets when he’s tying himself up in knots about everything. Between how late it is and how close he’s clinging at Hunk, there’s no way he could manage to convince Hunk that everything’s okay in Lancey-Lance Land. Then there’s his story about Keith breaking down in tears after their fight at the record store, then saying that it wasn’t over Shiro or for _any_ reason in particular, and that it wasn’t the first time he’d had something like that happen — which all makes Hunk tighten his hold on Lance as if he could slip away, himself.

Something’s rotten around here and Hunk has got to do whatever he can about that. For the moment, all he can do is cuddle Lance as close as possible, keep rubbing at his arm, and kiss his forehead. It isn’t much, but it makes Lance sigh like he might manage to relax a little, so Hunk keeps doing it. Unfortunately, he knows better than to think this conversation’s over, when Lance isn’t joking around, isn’t propping himself up to look Hunk in the eye, isn’t acting like Normal Lance but like Sad And Scared Lance — the sort of Lance he acts like when he thinks that Pidge is working too hard or Shiro might be getting in a bad way again and not asking for help.

After giving himself a few moments to think, Lance drops his arm to Hunk’s waist and says, “I mean, if I thought Keith was a danger to himself or anyone, there wouldn’t even be a question, right? I’d be telling people right away, not just Shiro. But here, it’s like? He’s obviously not doing okay, but as far as I know, he’s also not _actively_ hurting anybody, right? And I _promised_ not to tell Shiro, but I feel like I should, so I dunno what to do?”

“Me neither,” Hunk admits and nuzzles at Lance’s hair. “It just kinda sucks, doesn’t it?”

“No _kinda_ about it, buddy. This sucks more than Pidge going at the last little bit of milkshake.” Groaning softly, Lance burrows into Hunk’s chest and stays there for a good, long moment. When he finally flops back out to somewhere he can speak intelligibly, he does so with a soft, probably accidental kick at Hunk’s ankle. “I mean, yeah, I don’t want Shiro to get hurt. But I also don’t want him trying to play Keith’s therapist or whatever when it’s gonna be a bad time for _both_ of them? And I kept telling Mullet Boy to suck it up and talk to Shiro _openly_ , like the _adults_ we’re all supposed to be—”

“To be fair, dude? Midterms. I mean, we didn’t see a lot of Pidge this week either—”

“Yeah, I wanna believe in that but… I dunno.” Lance huffs. “You think it’ll make more sense in the morning?”

“Probably not? I mean, I _wanna_ tell you, ‘Yes,’ but I really kinda doubt it?”

But for whatever it’s worth, Hunk kisses at Lance’s forehead and tries to tune out that fuzzy feeling in his chest that sometimes flares up around Lance. As usual, he doesn’t completely manage, and it bristles inside him even harder when Lance nuzzles at him. Which is _stupid_ , really, because Lance is _only_ getting comfortable. He’s resting his head on Hunk tonight, so it takes a little while longer to find a good spot and Hunk has to deal with feeling what Lance’s pillows must feel most nights. It’s not like Lance _wants_ to feel Hunk up, though, not in any way that has intent or deep significance behind it. They’ve always been affectionate like this. Why would that be any different now?

Not that this really makes Hunk feel better about everything. It’s like all the times he’s ever tried to use logic to rein in one of his compulsions: knowing that he’s being irrational doesn’t make him feel better because the impulse hangs around, reminding Hunk that he’s not allowed to control his own mind freely, the way that normal people apparently get to do. Knowing that Lance doesn’t mean anything by nuzzling at him doesn’t make Hunk’s heart feel less like it’s stumbling home drunk and can’t stand upright. Knowing that Lance only cuddles up so close to him because they’ve always slept with each other like this doesn’t make Hunk’s stomach stop twisting up like he wants something, for all he has no idea what because he’s fine. Knowing that Lance likely wishes he were snuggling someone else right now unsettles the inexplicable fuzzy feeling sure but instead, it makes Hunk feel like someone’s scooped out all his insides with a melon-baller and left him with this gnawing, aching empty feeling because there’s nothing left but Hunk remembers having _something_.

None of which makes any sense and none of which is _helpful_. There’s no reason for this anomaly, so Hunk can’t waste time focusing on it, not when Lance is still sulking like tonight’s gonna be one of those nights when getting to sleep takes more effort than it should.

Hunk tries to give him a smile, even if he can’t quite see it. “If I made pancakes in the morning, would it help?”

“Unless you’ve learned magic and they’re like super-awesome, ‘Oh my god, you idiots, just talk to each other’ enchanted pancakes? Probably not.” Still, Lance sighs a bit less discontentedly and rubs at Hunk’s side almost like he’s trying to cop a feel. “But they’d make me feel better about this whole bullshit situation, so I vote pancakes. If you really want to, I mean.”

*** * ***

Disentangling himself from Lance in the morning is, hands down, at the top of Hunk’s list of least favorite activities. Always has been.

For one thing, Lance is very cuddly and gives as good as he gets, his cold feet notwithstanding.

For another thing, waking up before he does means that Hunk has to see what Lance looks like in the pale light of morning, with his hair all messy and his face relaxed for once. It’s a puzzling picture to take in, but not in a bad way. When he’s awake, Lance so easily gets himself keyed up about one thing or another, whether he’s anxious, excited, angry, concerned and trying his best to look out for a bunch of people who admittedly don’t always make it easy (even when they are legitimately trying their best), geeking out about scoring tickets to a meet-and-greet with some _Drag Race_ queen who he and Shiro love. Seeing Lance’s face relax when he’s awake usually means that he’s too exhausted for feelings, whether he’s getting in a bad way himself or just really needs a nap or ten.

But his sleepy face, though. He looks so peaceful, Hunk’s heart feels like it’s melting. It almost definitely won’t last when he realizes that he forgot to put on his overnight face-mask, but for the moment, it’s the cutest thing Hunk’s seen in weeks. And for all he can’t make pancakes from his bed, Hunk _really_ doesn’t want to risk disturbing Lance and waking him up.

Fortunately, Lance has slept through far worse things than Hunk moving around. All Hunk has to do is prop his buddy’s head up on the stuffed Vaporeon, and Lance whines a bit without waking up. Freed up like that, Hunk stretches and yawns on his plod toward the kitchen, and silently runs over the pros and cons of starting Lance’s pancakes now. Hunks’s rubbing out a tense spot in his neck when he realizes that, for once, he isn’t the first person awake in the apartment. Not that he can tell what’s going on, but he definitely hears someone rifling around in his kitchen and — well, there’s no law against lingering by the threshold to listen.

After a moment, there’s a muffled yawn and, “Are you _sure_ I can’t persuade you back into bed?” from Shiro.

“Nope,” says Keith noncommittally. “Wish you could, though.”

Shiro whines like it’s his turn to do the dishes. “But you said Allura’s not gonna be back in time for breakfast, right?”

“Yeah. That means I have to _make it for myself_ , though.”

“Or you go back to sleep and I make it for you—”

“Then we all die because you could find a way to blow up Eggo waffles?” The roll of Keith’s eyes is audible, but so is the affection.

Although Hunk doesn’t want to get caught in the act of eavesdropping (not least since he would not be able to pretend that he hadn’t been doing so), he also really wants to see what’s going on because it sounds interesting and also kinda _adorable_. So, Hunk inches closer to the edge of the wall, trying to keep quiet and specifically trying to keep himself from humming the _Pink Panther_ theme song. Maybe it doesn’t have any real magical powers, but that song has a way of soothing Hunk’s nerves and something about it just makes him feel so much sneakier. Except Shiro and Keith would definitely notice the noise, if he got too loud, which he probably would. Instead, neither of them even looks in Hunk’s direction as he leans around to spy on whatever they’re up to in his kitchen.

At the sight of them, Hunk has to cover his own mouth to keep from letting out an, _“Awww.”_ Never mind getting caught — without his coffee, Hunk couldn’t come up with a non-awkward explanation for why he’s getting so happy-flushed over a scene that, logically, he realizes isn’t particularly noteworthy. Even given that it’s happening between two people who Hunk cares about, it’s just Shiro with a messy morning ponytail and his arms lazily slung around Keith’s waist, slouching so he can nuzzle at the back of Keith’s head while Keith purses his lips and tries to stay focused on asking Shiro how many people are going to want coffee when they come and join the waking world, then scooping grounds into the filter. From there, Keith doesn’t wriggle away to go about the rest of his morning work. He just pats one of Shiro’s hands and Shiro follows while Keith returns to pawing around the kitchen, only letting go of him to grab the pre-sliced bagels off the top of the fridge when Keith motions at them.

“Okay, this is _so_ not fair,” Shiro mumbles into Keith’s hair. Undeterred, Keith shrugs and rips apart his bagel, then drops it in the toaster. Gently rubbing his hands around Keith’s middle, periodically teasing under the hem of his t-shirt, Shiro says, “I _know_ how to toast a bagel without hurting anyone. You’re a guest. You worked all night. At least let me make you breakfast in bed.”

“If I did that, I’d have to email my advisor.” Keith pats Shiro’s hand again and hauls him back to the fridge. While ferreting through the shelves and drawers, he spells out what he’d tell his professor, “‘Hey, Kolivan. Sorry I missed my second class in two weeks for reasons that had nothing to do with me getting sick. I know you probably expect better, but remember that guy you accused me of desperately wanting to see ‘cause I was going to his rock show? Yeah, well, I had to take him to the ER this morning. Don’t ask me _how_ this happened, but toasting a bagel for me wound up with him getting a really fancy steak knife lodged in his thigh. But please don’t worry, he actually has health insurance, so he’s fine now.’”

How Keith can sound so perfectly deadpan before he’s had coffee is beyond Hunk, but he can’t ponder how that works _and_ keep himself from laughing. He can only pick one right now, and he really, really, _really_ wants to see how the rest of this banter plays out.

For his part, Shiro considers Keith’s hypothetical email for a moment before brushing some of Keith’s hair off his neck. Smirking playfully, Shiro kisses the top of Keith’s spine and says, “Wow, _rude_ much?”

Keith snorts and pushes Shiro back, drags him around to the counter again. He has the roasted red pepper cream cheese and a package of lunchmeat. Giving Shiro a pensive nods, Keith seems like he’s going to agree about his rudeness right up until he says, “How about, ‘Wow, realistic assessment of your cooking abilities much’? Anyway, you’re on kitchen probation, right?”

“Okay, that incident happened like a _month_ ago—”

“You tried to put out a grease fire with _water_ ,” Keith points out, and he’s doing a good job of sounding exasperated, but God, that smile lights up his face. “You can’t even blame it on like, ‘Oh, I didn’t know that they put metal in the burger wrappers at Wendy’s’ or… Y’know. Anything _else_?”

“What, like I was sober, so I don’t have an excuse?” At the nod he gets, Shiro presses closer against Keith’s back and hugs him tighter. “You’re _allowed_ to just say that, okay? You don’t have to tiptoe through the eggshells with me about my sobriety. It’s kinda better if you don’t.” With a soft huff, he kisses the top of Keith’s head. “Anyway, I only didn’t handle grease fires when I was wasted due to lack of opportunity.”

Keith starts going with one thought, then furrows his brow. “Are you being extra-handsy with my stomach for a _reason_?” He rolls his eyes at Shiro’s cagey, _“Hmm?”_ but doesn’t let that deter him from collecting his bagel when it pops up, then getting to work on it. “Look, I’m not objecting to you being handsy. It’s nice. And it’s adorable how you think you’re being subtle—”

“I’m not trying to be _subtle_ ,” Shiro grumbles. “I’m _trying_ to get you back in my bed.”

“Not all of us have the day off from adulthood, though, nerd.” Keith’s firm tone of voice is undercut somewhat by the fond chuckle and the moment where he leans back into Shiro’s chest. “But as I was trying to say? Am I hallucinating? Or misinterpreting? Are you too decaffeinated to notice that you keep touching my stomach? Or…?”

Hunk perks up at a noise like Rover pawing at the inside of Lance’s door, but Pidge is a light sleeper and Hunk is dropping eaves. He doesn’t feel _good_ about leaving Rover to Pidge’s devices, but she’ll get up and let him out, then go back to sleep, probably in very short order. Then Rover can go outside and get fed and shower Shiro with all the affection, and hopefully, everybody will be happy. (Well, that might be asking for a bit much around here, but Hunk can dream.)

“ _Soooo_ …” Keith says, resting his head on Shiro’s shoulder ever-so-briefly. “Am I nuts or are you feeling me up?”

“I can stop if you don’t like it?” Although Shiro leaves his arms around Keith, he nudges them up a bit higher. But when Keith confirms that it’s okay, Shiro’s hands drop right back into their prior position and he gently pokes Keith’s middle. “I actually wondered if I was the one hallucinating? Sorry, I _may_ be too decaffeinated to say this _tactfully_? But your stomach’s a lil’ _different_ from what I remember? And cute, just… different. And unexpected? And _soft_?”

“Yeah, I’m the only person I know who _didn’t_ hate gaining the freshman fifteen-ish.” Shrugging, Keith rubs his back against Shiro’s chest again, but quickly returns to fixing up his bagel. “These days, it comes and goes based on different shit? I usually don’t notice but… Guess I shouldn’t be surprised? You happened to find me when I haven’t felt like dragging myself to the gym but _have_ managed to keep eating decently. _Mostly_ thanks to Allura, but either way…”

Shiro hums and hugs Keith tighter again. As he kisses the back of Keith’s neck again, his face twists up in concern and his eyes glimmer like he might start crying. “I’m feeling like I should get Allura a birthday present? Even a dumb, last-minute one. Maybe ask if Hunk minds making _her_ some cupcakes, too.” Squeezing Keith’s waist, Shiro explains, “Y’all’s birthday is a convenient excuse to go, ‘I know we just met and this might be awkward, but thank you so much for being there for Keith and keeping him healthy. It means a lot to me.’”

Dropping one of his hands to Shiro’s wrist, Keith sighs. “You’re such a dweeb,” he says like he feels the need to say something and can’t come up with something else. “But you’re my _favorite_ dweeb. For whatever that’s worth.”

Still nosing gingerly at Keith’s neck, Shiro seems like he’s building up to saying something and it’s probably important to him. But before he can, Lance’s door creaks open enough to let Rover out, and he comes bounding to the kitchen. He doesn’t bark — then again, Rover rarely full-on barks — but he sure does whine while dancing around Keith’s and Shiro’s legs and gently butting his head into Shiro’s plaid pajama bottoms like he’s trying to find Shiro’s calf. Or at the least he’s trying to get Shiro’s attention, and Rover manages to get a soft sigh out of his Tallest Human. Not that he ever fails to get that, but judging from the hint of a groan that Shiro lets slip, he’s very torn between doing the responsible thing for Rover and staying right here with Keith.

“D’you need to leave?” he says, tightening his hold on Keith again. “Or can you hang around ’til I get back with Rover?”

“I was gonna make myself lunch too, if that’s okay?” When he gets confirmation that it is, Keith rubs at Shiro’s wrist, then chuckles. “Go take him out before he pisses on the floor or something. I’ll be here.”

Shiro gives Keith’s neck another kiss before getting Rover on the leash, slipping into his sneakers, and heading out. They have to duck back very briefly because he forgot a baggie to clean up any poop-messes, but Shiro takes that as a free excuse to kiss Keith on the cheek. Once he’s gone, Keith turns toward the threshold and arches an eyebrow. Holding his breath, Hunk tries to stay as still as possible, like they live in the reality where doing that could actually make him invisible. All that it manages it making Keith smirk bemusedly and shake his head.

“I _know_ you’re eavesdropping, Hunk—”

“I weren’t dropping no eaves, like, there ain’t no eaves to drop around here and I would _know_?” Grinning bashfully, Hunk edges into the threshold properly. His cheeks twinge a bit when Keith rolls his eyes, but Keith’s still smiling, so Hunk shrugs and tells him, “Sorry, just? I didn’t know anybody else was up, then I heard you, and you guys seemed so _comfortable_ and _cute_ together? Which was sorta like, okay, I knew I shouldn’t listen in but then both of you sounded _happy_ —”

“It’s _fine_ , Samwise Gamgee,” Keith says, rolling his eyes and turning to the coffee-pot. When he sits at the table with his mug and food, Hunk’s still on his feet and Keith sighs at him. “Look, I’ve known you were there since Shiro claimed he can toast a bagel without killing everyone. If it’d been Lance or Pidge, then yeah, I would’ve objected?”

“But I’m _special_? Because you _liiiiiiike_ me?” Hunk tries his best not to beam while playfully fluttering his eyelashes, but Keith snorting at him seems like a sure sign that he didn’t quite succeed. But Keith’s also _smiling_ as he bites into his cream-cheese-and-ham bagel-sandwich, so Hunk counts it as a win.

Either way, that’s all the invitation Hunk needs to come help himself to coffee. He still takes his meds with water, because that’s what he’s _supposed_ to do, but he’s learned to appreciate coffee, living with Lance and Shiro. Leaving Shiro’s _Star Trek_ mug on the table, Hunk decides to busy himself while Keith eats. Aside from having to get his supplies together for chocolate chip pancakes, he has to double-check Keith’s box of cupcakes to make sure that none of them have shifted around in the night. Seeing as they haven’t, Hunk sighs at himself for even thinking anything like that could’ve happened. Yeah, right, because there are nefarious cupcake-moving fairies who could’ve broken into the apartment and screwed up with Hunk’s nicely arranged gift.

God, but this drags Hunk down like he’s wearing shoulder-pads made out of fifty-pound weights. He’s never grown out of his OCD, and he _knows_ that he could be doing a whole lot worse. Even if he weren’t managing as badly as Slav, Hunk’s had periods himself where he couldn’t put cupcakes in a box without carving off most of the frosting so that none of them would touch each other and none of them would have more topping than any of the others. He’s had times when Lance had to physically stop him from scooping flour out of the bag and dumping it back in because he couldn’t get his measuring cup filled up to the _exactly right amount_. Before getting his diagnosis back in high school, Hunk wiped off his chapstick and reapplied it at least four times an hour, because there was too little of it on his lips, or too much, or he’d messed up _something_ about putting it on and felt certain he’d poison himself _somehow_ , even though his chapstick wasn’t toxic.

Compared to where he’s been before and where he knows he _could_ be, Hunk’s doing great and he appreciates that. But that doesn’t mean he _likes_ this, or that he doesn’t need to take his mind off of everything as soon as possible. With a huff, Hunk asks what kind of lunch Keith usually likes. He can’t begrudge Keith giving him a weird, scrunched up look as if Hunk’s started speaking Klingon at him.

“You don’t have to do that?” Keith says around a mouthful of food. When he swallows, he clarifies, “Not that I don’t appreciate the offer, it’s cool of you and it’d be super-helpful, and I get that you guys care more about birthdays than I do? But it’s okay, I know how to make my own lunch?”

“How about letting me do it because I really, really want to?” Hunk suggests with a shrug. That only makes Keith tilt his head uncomprehendingly, so Hunk sighs and explains, “I’m restless, I wanna do something with my hands. And it’d help with, like? It’d make me feel… y’know, better? Like I’ve got it all together?”

“But you totally _do_ have it together—”

“It’s an OCD thing,” Hunk admits, folding up his arms as he leans against the counter. “It’s fine, mostly? Not any real trouble, it’s really just annoying? But doing stuff for people makes me feel better when it starts acting up, so… What d’you want for lunch?”

For a moment, Keith wrinkles his nose and regards Hunk with something that isn’t quite curiosity and isn’t exactly skepticism. But at least he shrugs and gives Hunk a few suggestions that he can work with. While putting Keith’s sandwich together for him, Hunk tries to throw himself headlong into the process. Normally, he manages that without too much effort, but right about now, Keith’s making it harder to focus. If he were doing anything in particular, Hunk would mind his own lack of attention span less, but all Keith’s doing is leaning on the table and asking for the wifi password. Apparently, his plan doesn’t have unlimited data and he wants to check his email, and that makes sense enough? Even if Keith didn’t have a good reason for wanting it, Hunk would share the password with him because it’s just polite.

Except there’s _something_ that Hunk doesn’t like about Keith’s expression and how he’s sitting there, with his elbow on the table, his chin in his palm, and his shoulders hunched over as if he’s trying to carry a backpack that weighs more than Hunk. As he taps at his phone, Keith’s face isn’t twisted up or miserable. Aside from looking _tired_ , it isn’t much of _anything_. And tired probably makes sense, considering that Keith’s been up to his eyes in midterms for a little over a week and wasn’t terribly well-rested, going into that. When Hunk gets to see Keith’s eyes, though, they have a faraway look in them like he’s probably the sort of tired that’s got nothing to do with how much he slept or hasn’t. In light of what Lance shared before nodding off, that’d make sense. Boundaries are something to respect, Hunk gets that and he doesn’t want to push Keith too hard, especially not when it could all too easily go wrong.

But he also can’t do _nothing_. He can’t just _let_ Keith sit there, looking like he needs someone to reach out to him. While he’s bagging up Keith’s sandwich and some mini-pretzels, Hunk says, “Soooo, heeey… Did your advisor _really_ accuse you of desperately wanting to see Shiro? Like, in those words exactly? Also, d’you want me to refill your thermos?”

“Yes, please. I was gonna do that anyway, since Shiro invited me to…” Keith shrugs in the face of Hunk’s arched eyebrow, but after a moment, he relents and says, “Yeah, Kolivan did say that. But he had reason. He knows I’m on the spectrum and not the biggest fan of bars — which? He probably thinks that’s a good thing, since I’d probably pull a lot more dangerous stunts if I could handle going out to bars more often.”

“But how did he know about you and Shiro?”

“He didn’t, not really?” Sighing softly, Keith slides his phone away and buries himself in a long sip of coffee. “I mean, he knows that I lost someone important to me before I left Chicago? But he doesn’t know anything specific, or even that the guy in question’s still alive? And there wasn’t a reason to connect what he knew before to what I told him about the show? He probably only said it because he caught me dumpster-diving for returnables.”

For all it feels like Keith’s leaving _something_ out, Hunk nods and supposes that Keith’s right, or at least that he knows his advisor way better than Hunk does. Which isn’t a good enough response for Hunk to feel okay about it. Not knowing what else to say makes the back of his neck itch, but he needs to say _something_ , doesn’t he? Even if Keith doesn’t _look_ miserable as he picks his phone up again, he’s going through _some_ kind of difficult shit and it might not help for Hunk to admit that he knows about it? Especially not in the process of getting Keith and Lance to maybe sorta like each other? But jeez, there has to be _something_ that Hunk can say, doesn’t there?

“Hey, Hunk?” Although his voice is oddly soft, Keith yanks Hunk out of his own thoughts. But then he waits for Hunk to set the thermos and plastic grocery bag of lunch on the table. When he turns his face up toward Hunk, Keith’s eyes don’t have that same far-off look. Instead, they’re glinting earnestly and his jaw is set like it’s taking a lot of effort for him to say, “…Thanks.”

“What, for making lunch? Dude, it’s fine, I cook for people all the time and you didn’t even want me to cook, so…” Hunk purses his lips bemusedly when Keith shakes his head. “For letting you sleep over? Because that’s not a big deal, either, and I mean, you got Shiro to go to bed at…” But that earns him another shake of the head, so Hunk guesses, “For the cupcakes? Because I already told you—”

“Thanks for being there for Shiro, okay?” Keith spits it out without sounding annoyed or angry, but after that, he needs a moment to glance at the floor and take a few deep breaths. When he finally turns back to Hunk, it’s with a heavy sigh. “Look, I still don’t know what me and Shiro think we’re doing, but whatever happens with us? It means a lot to me that he’s, like, _alive_? And that he’s doing better — not just with his sobriety, but _everything_ seems like…”

Slouching, Keith apparently can’t handle making so much eye contact. But he nods when Hunk extends a hand, so Hunk rubs gentle circles along his back, hoping that Keith gets the message that it’s okay. Hunk doesn’t mind not having any eye contact, right now, because he knows this can’t be easy. Anyway, Keith’s _trying_ , which counts for a lot in Hunk’s mind. Most people don’t even put the effort into anything they do, much less into saying things that they’d rather not and having difficult conversations like this one. So, hey, if Keith needs some time to think about what he wants to say next? Well, he’s definitely earned it, if anybody cares what Hunk thinks.

“I mean, I wish I’d been there for him?” Keith says after a while, quietly, still looking at the floor while Hunk looks at his hands and the top of his head. “But I _wasn’t_ , and it’s not… I wanna say it’s _my_ fault? Because I left, whatever reasons I had for that? But Lance probably had a point in saying it wasn’t anyone’s fault but Maurice’s, and whoever’s fault anything was, the point is still that I wasn’t there for Shiro, so…”

Shrugging up at Hunk, Keith tries to give him a wobbly smile. “Thanks for being there for him. It’s just… It means a lot to me that he’s doing better now, and I know Ryou wouldn’t leave his brother to deal with this alone? But I’m really glad that Shiro had friends like you and Lance and Pidge. So… thank you.”

Hunk blinks at the fist Keith holds up for him, but only because he didn’t peg Keith for someone who has that much patience for the fine art of the fist-bump. But hey, Hunk’s never gonna turn down a fist-bump. Giving Keith that even seems to strengthen his smile, though it’s still on the smallish side and looking like it could break into pieces with the smallest bit of pressure.

“I’m happy to do anything I can? And Shiro’s a pretty good friend, himself?” Hunk says, patting Keith’s shoulder, then going for the box of cupcakes. He grabs an extra off the plate, so Keith can try one now. “And I won’t tell Lance that you said something nice about him, yeah?”

“Nah, you can tell him that much. He probably wouldn’t even believe you about it? I mean, I’ve been kind of a dick to him, so…” Whether or not Keith means it, he lets a sad note creep into his voice. He doesn’t put Hunk’s mind at ease when he blinks at the cupcake, but at least it doesn’t take long for Keith to figure out that he’s meant to be eating it.

“Maybe neither of you’s been at your best with each other, but I meant what I said last night? Lance _is_ coming around about you, even if it’s kinda slowly…” But Hunk’s not sure he could say anything more about that without giving away what Lance opened up about last night. So, he grabs himself a cupcake and sits down next to Keith. Batting his toes at Keith’s ankle, he says, “But, y’know, I can be there for more people than just Lance and Shiro and Pidge? Like, I wasn’t trying to jerk you around by giving you my number, right?”

“You don’t strike me as that kinda guy…” Keith sniffs at the cupcake before unwrapping it. When he notices Hunk frowning, he explains, “I dunno, I have a really sensitive nose? Sometimes, I can tell if icing’s gonna be more sugary or more buttercreamy by smelling it?”

“You could just _ask_ me?” Hunk points out. “But it’s sugary. Shiro said you’re really picky about buttercream frosting.”

For a hot second, it looks like Keith means to protest or argue with Hunk on that point. But instead, he shakes his head and takes a bite out of the cupcake. The little gasp and ensuing happy-sigh make Hunk perk up. He can’t help grinning when Keith licks a stray bit of frosting off his lips, and barely restrains himself from clapping excitedly when Keith moans into a second bite about how goddamn good this cupcake is. Hunk still has to clutch his hands together for want of something to do with them, because sue him, he _enjoys_ when people appreciate his cooking. Moreover, Keith seems happy for once, whether it’s from the cupcake or some residual positive side-effects from canoodling with Shiro, and happiness seems like something that Keith doesn’t get to enjoy as often as he deserves.

But right, Hunk had a point here that he needs to finish making.

“Look, all I’m saying is that you’re _allowed_ to ask for help, okay? Or for someone to listen? Or whatever? Whether you really need it or you just kinda want it…” Hunk gives Keith a smile, hoping that it helps ease Keith into what Hunk’s telling him. It earns him a brief quirk of Keith’s eyebrow instead, but when Hunk quirks one back, Keith goes back to his cupcake. “And just because I’m in Shiro’s support network doesn’t mean I can’t be in yours, too? That’s what friends do for each other, right?”

Keith starts saying something, but he doesn’t even get through two syllables before his words skid to an abrupt halt. Over another bite of cupcake, he wrinkles his nose and squints at Hunk, then looks around the kitchen, like there’s a hidden camera that he means to find. Whatever’s going on in his head, it makes something in Hunk’s chest feel tight and full-to-bursting with the desire to hug Keith ’til he understands that he’s a pretty cool person or until Hunk bruises his ribs. Whichever happens first (though Hunk would rather end up with the former option).

As it stands, he drags himself to the edge of his seat, leaning toward Keith even as he tells himself to pull back a little bit, rest harder on his elbows, let Keith feel like he has personal space and isn’t getting it infringed upon.

Waiting for Keith to say something only ends when the front door creaks open and Rover bounds back into the kitchen, metal tags on his collar clinking at each other all the way. As he rubs himself up against Hunk’s shins like a cat, Shiro rejoins them and Keith sighs in relief. He polishes off his coffee and his cupcake while Shiro gets a mug for himself and tells him about his run-in with Emma from across the hall and how she got commissioned for a new sculpture by some gallery uptown, over by where Slav and Ryou work. Shiro’s smile only seems to falter when Keith gets up from the table, but it blooms again as Keith drapes his arms around Shiro’s shoulders. Tucking Keith’s hair behind his ear, Shiro waits for him to nod and say, _“It’s my birthday, right? ‘Cause I know what I want,”_ then he cups one hand around Keith’s jaw.

For all he can guess what’s coming, Hunk has to tighten his hands around his mug when Keith tugs Shiro down and their lips finally touch. He wants to go, _“Awww”_ or squeal in delight. His whole chest swells, all bright and warm and happy, just watching Shiro curl his free arm around Keith’s waist and tilt his head so he can kiss Keith more deeply. One of them sighs, but Hunk can’t tell who. Or maybe both of them do. Sucking on Shiro’s lip and nudging up against his hips, Keith blushes until his cheeks are only a few shades lighter than his hooded sweatshirt. Even when they separate to breathe, Keith and Shiro keep beaming at each other. If Hunk weren’t seeing it himself, he wouldn’t believe that Keith’s face could get so soft — he’d hope that he was _wrong_ , but Keith puts so much work into acting tough and he can sell it really well.

Except now, he’s starry-eyed and half-melted in Shiro’s embrace, while Shiro’s looking at Keith like he’s the center of the universe.

“Mmm,” Shiro says. “Raspberry-chocolate cupcake kisses with a side of Keith. Almost feels like it’s _my_ birthday.”

Keith laughs at that, but it’s a tight, breathy sound, like maybe he’s afraid of somehow breaking this moment by enjoying it too much. “It’ll be _strawberry_ -chocolate kisses on your birthday,” he points out fondly. “At least, if you still want kisses by then.”

Frowning, Shiro pulls back enough to take a better look at Keith’s expression, then leans down to kiss him again. He sighs into it and holds on like the kiss is a promise, holds onto Keith like the worst thing in the world would be letting him go. “I’ll keep you posted,” Shiro whispers right against Keith’s mouth. “But I completely expect to want birthday kisses, as long as you still want to let me have some.”

It takes him a moment, but Keith manages to nod. “We’ll meet at the restaurant later, right? Not like I don’t want to go there with you, because I _would_? But I have to get Allura’s present and my nicer clothes, and they’re back at my place, so…”

“What kinda dress code does this place have?” Shiro nudges his forehead against Keith’s, then brushes their noses against each other with a smile that’d look easy if Hunk didn’t know better. Even putting aside everything that Shiro’s been through, he works his ass off to make things look effortless when they definitely aren’t.

“I dunno, _nice_? The distinctions past that are kinda lost on me, but it’s not black tie? Allura knows I can’t do that…” Huffing, Keith steals another, briefer kiss. It’s not _chaste_ , with how hard he sucks on Shiro’s lip, but Keith doesn’t hold it for very long. “She told me I’d be fine with my nice slacks, a blazer, and a button-up.”

“Okay,” Shiro chuckles, brushing his thumb down Keith’s cheek. “Happy birthday, by the way.”

Rolling his eyes, Keith says, “You’re gonna completely exhaust those words before midnight rolls around, aren’t you?”

Shiro gets a faux-guilty shifty-face and shrugs. “That’s the plan.”

“Good thing that you’re _you_ ,” Keith mutters before snatching up another, even briefer kiss. “You and Allura are the only people who can get away with that. Like, I wouldn’t fight Kolivan about it either, but I’m expecting a pat on the shoulder from him and that’s about it…” Yet another kiss, and Keith holds this one until he whines from lack of air. Smirking playfully, he tells Shiro, “Don’t blow up anything before dinner, okay? I like you way better in one piece.”

Although Shiro agrees to that condition without a moment’s thought, he’s much less into the idea of letting Keith leave. When Keith finally wriggles out of his arms, Shiro lets himself whine in a way that almost sounds like petulance. While Keith’s getting all his things together, Shiro watches him and the look on his face is so fond and so besotted, Hunk feels like he shouldn’t be allowed to see it. Maybe he was literally just watching Keith and Shiro put their tongues inside each other’s mouths, but Keith isn’t seeing the dewy, aching way that Shiro’s face twists up, so it might not be something Hunk’s allowed to look at, either.

By the time Keith rounds on Shiro to steal one last goodbye kiss, Shiro’s forcing himself to smile and it looks similar enough to the faces he was making before Keith pulled away. But when the door slams behind Keith, Shiro wilts against the counter. Bracing himself on it with both hands, he sighs and drops his chin, staring at the floor. His white forelock droops over part of his face, but when he tucks it behind his ear, the glimpse he gives Hunk of his face looks… messy, for want of a better word. There are too many things going on to call it something else.

One second, Shiro’s brow knots up in confusion. The next, he’s coughing up breathless laughs of his own and grinning like he can’t believe what’s going on. After that, he glances toward the window at the far edge of the living room with unmistakable yearning, and then he’s smiling but still looks like he could cry. Hot on that expression’s heels, Shiro’s blushing pink and giggling with a lopsided, giddy smile just like the one he got when Keith first texted him. All the different expressions spasm across Shiro’s face, refusing to settle for more than a moment or two, until finally, Shiro shakes his head. That knocks his forelock loose again, and as it drops back over his eye, he clenches his hands around the counter, clutching onto it for dear life.

Oh, no. From here, Hunk can’t tell whether or not Shiro’s digging the sharp edge into his hands, but he can see the way that Shiro’s eyes go wide, fixed on the floor like someone’s holding his head down from behind. There’s no mistaking the quiver in his lips as he tries to smile or the way they stretch so tightly, they look like they’re about to snap. Hunk’s seen this look before. He knows that desperation. Absolutely none of this is good.

With a soft huff, Hunk leans into the counter next to Shiro. He only means to tuck Shiro’s hair behind his ear, because it lets Shiro know that he has someone he can lean on without making him feel intruded on — but next thing he knows, Shiro’s slouching against him, burying his face in the side of Hunk’s neck, and burrowing into a hug. Reassurances that it’s all okay and Shiro’s safe and he’s gonna be fine come out without Hunk needing to think about them. Holding Shiro close, he strokes his hand along Shiro’s back slow circles, ready to wait this out for as long as Shiro needs or wants him.

Grasping at straws, Hunk tries to recall some of the mindfulness questions Shiro got from Ulaz. The first few that he gets out, Hunk doesn’t feel certain of — they _could_ be from Ulaz, sure, but at the same time, they remind him of one episode of _Hannibal_ that Lance and Pidge made him sit through before accepting that the show too often made Hunk vomit — but Shiro nods like it’s all helping somewhat. Whether or not the questions are exactly right, they’re helping, and that’s the most important part of anything.

The deep, overly controlled breaths that Shiro keeps taking really don’t make Hunk feel better, though. But at the same time, Shiro doesn’t shudder or doesn’t make any cracking, whimpering sounds like he’s trying not to sob. He trembles, yeah, but he’s probably scaring himself right now, or that’s what he’s said before. Plus, he’s nowhere near as bad off as he could be. Other moments like this have involved cravings and maybe giving in to them, crying until he got sick or else passed out, picking fights with Lotor but insisting he was in the right, and asking Lance to hide the razors in the bathroom. Now, Shiro only clings at Hunk and sighs quietly when Hunk pets his hair.

“Oh my _God_ , I love him _**so** much_ ,” Shiro mumbles after a while.

“Yeah, buddy, I know,” Hunk tells him. “And you’re okay. Promise. You’re _here_ , and you’re okay.”

Not that he ever _likes_ Shiro needing to ground himself back in the real, present moment? But if Shiro _had_ to have a moment like that, isn’t it better that it happened because he’s overwhelmed by something nice, not because something terrible came up and triggered him? Anyway, he didn’t even pretend to fuss with Hunk about accepting comfort, so maybe that’s a good thing? In the meantime, it means Hunk can smile about Shiro _saying_ that he loves Keith without fear of getting caught and having to explain himself. He wouldn’t begrudge Shiro any confusion, in that scenario — after all, it’s hardly fitting for the band’s sweetheart to smile when he has one of his best friends leaning on him for help — but all up, it’s easier to just avoid the issue entirely.

In a bid to get his face back under control, Hunk takes a deep breath and tells Shiro, “At least? I dunno, it seemed like things were going pretty well? And he only left because he had to go to class? And you’re seeing him tonight? And me and Lance have the day off too, if you want any help getting ready, so…? It’s all good, right?”

Shiro sighs again, and nods, and when he pulls back from Hunk, the first thing he does is grab for one of the pill bottles on the counter. As much as Hunk doesn’t want to let Shiro go right now — this hug feels nice and Shiro has way too many priors where he’s tried to deny himself the comfort that he needed — he also isn’t gonna argue with Shiro taking his meds without needing a reminder. Aside from how taking your meds is a good idea and how much progress Shiro’s made about taking it on his own, the fact that he’s doing it now means that he’s probably grounded in the present well enough.

After picking out his Xanax and Lance’s Adderall, Shiro finally finds his Effexor. Once he’s taken it with coffee, he slumps next to Hunk on the edge of the counter and tells him, “He’s just been so hard for me to _read_ , y’know?”

Personally? No, Hunk _doesn’t_ know. If anyone cares what he thinks, he feels like Keith is hard to read in the same way that big, well-illuminated billboards with nice fonts and good contrast are hard to read: not even remotely.

Except saying so right after Shiro’s had to recenter himself? Right after he’s been clinging at Hunk, trembling because his feelings got too intense for him and he had to remember where reality began and ended? Yeah, that would be the opposite of helpful. For now, Hunk can keep his perfectly fair constructive criticism to himself.

Gently, he nudges a hip at Shiro’s and gives him a hopefully reassuring smile. Shiro doesn’t waste their time, pretending to smile back. Sure, his fragile little huff kicks Hunk in the chest and the makes him want to demand that it be hugging time again — but holy crow, at least Shiro’s not lying to himself about what he’s feeling. At least he’s not acting like everything’s fine, like he _wasn’t_ just grounding himself to stave off a panic attack or flashback or both, and like Hunk can’t tell he’s kind of a mess right now. Maybe it’s not the biggest victory by most people’s standards, but Hunk knows how difficult this can be for Shiro and how hard he’s had to work to even get this far. His smile is genuine as he rubs at Shiro’s back again, because Hunk’s proud of him and Shiro needs to know that.

“Can you tell me what you’re feeling?” he suggests gently, since Shiro’s probably waiting for a response. “I mean, I know what I think about the what’s going on, but it’ll be easier to talk if we’re on the same page, right?”

“I didn’t think Keith was going to be _that_ hard to read?” Shiro explains. “Or no more than he could be back in Chicago? Maybe a little easier, since I’m _clean_ now?” Pausing for a sigh, he digs the small of his back against the counter. Concerning, maybe, but he knocks it off soon enough so what does Hunk know? Maybe Shiro only had to scratch an itch. “But then, after the show, I thought he hated me when it turned out he didn’t? So, it’s like… I don’t want to _push_ too hard, but…? I also don’t feel like I’m the best judge of our situation, whatever it is? And I’m so…”

Hunk pouts and offers, “It’s okay to feel uncertain, I mean? I think Keith does, too?”

“Why?” Shiro perks up. “Did he say something?”

Oh, jeez, Hunk should’ve asked Keith what sort of privacy setting he wanted to put on their conversation. At least he has a convenient line to fall back on: “It’s not about anything he said specifically? But I get that it’s an emotionally messy situation for both of you and… I dunno? I think you should talk to _him_ about it?”

Despite the way he cringes, Shiro acquiesces that Hunk’s right, admits that he and Keith have a lot to talk about and that, for his part, Shiro wants to do that. It isn’t like Hunk can blame him for any anxiety. Based on the parts of the story that Hunk knows, Shiro fidgeting with his bangs, twisting his fingers up in them over and over and over again, is a pretty _good_ reaction, relatively speaking. There’s so much meshed up in whatever went on between him and Keith in Chicago, and so much of what Hunk’s heard sounds like a minefield of potential triggers. He wouldn’t be surprised if even alluding to it were to make Shiro either have a panic attack or suck it up and take his Xanax. Maybe playing with his hair means that he’s managing okay?

But as he polishes off his coffee, Shiro sighs. “D’you mind being my jogging buddy? I really want to go clear my head, but… I don’t know how much I trust myself to go alone?”

Fortunately, someone knocks on the threshold into the kitchen before Hunk can get wrapped up in debating his options with himself, keep Shiro waiting for too long, and inadvertently make things worse.

Double-fortunately, Lance turns out to be that someone. Stretching out his back and shoulders, he tugs his t-shirt up, showing off enough of his stomach and hipbones to make Hunk’s cheeks flush ever-so-slightly warmer. As he scratches at his tummy, he pads into the kitchen, dragging the plastic soles of his blue, fluffy lion slippers along the linoleum. He doesn’t bother to explain himself until after he’s taken his Adderall, but Hunk knows the particular Lance Esparza Smirk that’s lighting up his face while he combs his fingers through his hair. It’s the smirk that says, _“I know that I’ve got to get to something, and I’m gonna do it, but God, just let me relish in being the center of attention right now, okay?”_

“Hunk can’t go,” he drawls. “He owes me pancakes, but I’ll come out with you, if you want?”

“You _hate_ jogging,” Hunk points out, squinting. “How many times have I tried to get you to come with me and heard, ‘I know it keeps you healthy but God, at what cost’ line you totally cribbed from _Parks and Rec_?”

“And I stand by that,” Lance insists, grinning like he’s incredibly pleased with himself — which, considering Lance, he almost definitely is. But he slouches as he turns to Shiro and says, “I just, y’know? Don’t want to distract Hunk any? Because he _said_ that he’d make pancakes and those sound _really_ good today, and… I dunno, you keep talking about how jogging helps you think? So I thought, ‘Hey, maybe it’s like Keith with our music, maybe I haven’t given it a real chance’?”

Hunk has so much bullshit to call on everything Lance just said that, for a moment, his entire mind goes blank.

He really _does_ intend to call said bullshit, too. But before he can, Shiro’s nodding and telling Lance, “Yeah, sure. I mean, I’m not gonna say, ‘No’ to an extra jogging buddy, and if it helps you, too? Then great. Let’s move before you get any other ideas.”

Because he’s a good friend and the band’s resident sweetheart, Hunk says nothing about how little sense his Shiro and his Lance are making at the moment. He frowns as they dart back to their rooms. When they come out, he scowls down at the instructions on the back of his box of pancake mix, even though he knows them by heart. Lance calls out, _“We’ll be back soon, okay, Hunkules,”_ and Hunk forces a smile, looking up to wave at him — but God, Lance’s teeny-tiny, dark blue gym shorts make Hunk wish he was better at sulking and _not_ making himself look at people when they talk to him. Jeez, Shiro at least has the decency to toss on looser shorts that don’t let his toned thighs insist upon themselves and an old t-shirt that doesn’t rub anyone’s face in how unfairly beautiful he is. He looks like he’s going to go work out.

Lance, on the other hand, looks like he wants attention, preferably in the form of compliments showering on him like a rainstorm. His shirt hugs him about as tightly as Hunk was just hugging Shiro, with fanart of Kesha stretched across his chest. If Hunk knows anything about his best friend, it’s that Lance bought that shirt a size too small on purpose. And if he knows anything about himself, it’s that he _dang well knows better_ than to check Lance out when he could notice. But tossing on a hoodie doesn’t make Lance look any more modest or any less like he wants someone to tell him how hot he looks. All it does is draw Hunk’s eyes to how Lance’s shorts fit on his ass as he trails out the door after Shiro.

Once they’re gone, Hunk gives himself a mental count of twenty to calm down. Yes, obviously, there was _some_ kind of conversation going on that he just completely missed, but he wants to get busy making breakfast and if Lance wants to talk about something with Shiro instead of his best best friend, then it’s his prerogative. If both of them want to keep it secret for now, then it’s okay because one of them will blab about it, sooner or later. There’s nothing for Hunk to get any kind of upset about, so breathing deeply should get his head cleared up and let him work.

Which is great in theory, but Hunk still face-plants on the counter, groaning because _holy crow, this fucking **sucks**._

*** * ***

At least being the best-adjusted member of the band has certain benefits. For example, how much easier it is for Hunk to pull himself together. He lets his feelings happen, vents them into something without trying to explain them, and then finds something to do with himself until he has a chance to work them out more directly.

Right now, this means that, once he’s done groaning, his motivation to make an awesome breakfast comes back with a vengeance. If Lance and Shiro are going to have weird secrets instead of sharing with the rest of them, then fine. Hunk’s just gonna make his best chocolate chip pancakes, everybody’s favorite eggs, and bacon. He’s gonna dice up some of the fruit that he brought home yesterday, and since they really need to use the hot dogs in the fridge, he’ll cut them up into little octopuses. Then, Shiro and Lance are gonna get home, and Pidge is either gonna wake up on her own (which he hopes she does, because it’s _Monday_ ) or Hunk will drag her out of bed, and they’ll all eat breakfast _together_ , and so help him God, Hunk’s going to make it _enjoyable_ and _fun_ , even if he has to bust out into, “Make ‘Em Laugh” from _Singin’ In The Rain_ and do an elaborate song-and-dance routine all over the living room.

Maybe he’s at risk of going overboard, but Hunk puts out food and fresh water for Rover before starting anything, so it’s okay.

Pidge wanders out with the little guy at her heels while Hunk’s rinsing his strawberries. He has a plate full of octopus-dogs done because they’re easier to microwave if they get cold, and a bowl of pancake batter ready to go and covered with some paper towel. Maybe he can’t make those or the eggs up until everybody’s here because they won’t taste as good if they aren’t fresh, but he can’t deny: beating a whisk through the mixture by hand let off a _lot_ of steam Hunk didn’t even fully realize that he was sitting on. The bacon, he’s waiting on too, because Lance is picky with and likes looking over Hunk’s shoulder while he’s making it, even after all these years.

Pidge’s entrance is refreshingly, calmingly normal, in her perpetually anti-normal way. She’s wearing last night’s t-shirt and a pair of Lance’s boxers as pajamas, because the two of them share clothes despite the fact that he’s a good nine inches taller and for all they’re both skinny, they aren’t really the same size. She doesn’t say anything at first, just gets her own pill bottles out of her backpack, takes them with coffee, then scoops more grounds into a fresh filter because Keith seems to have underestimated exactly how much he could put in his thermos. Perching on a stretch of counter that Hunk isn’t using — and it’s over by a section of wall that doesn’t have the spice rack, knife-block, or any power outlets, so Hunk probably won’t have need of it — Pidge sips on her coffee and squints at Hunk throughout their morning small-talk.

Yes, she slept fine. No, she doesn’t want a shower right now. No, she doesn’t have anywhere to be yet. Yes, it’s Monday but one of her classes wasn’t meeting today anyway, and the prof for her afternoon class canceled because his kid got sick or something. But wait, doesn’t it feel a bit empty around here. Oh yeah, Keith had to leave for class but he took lunch with him _and_ the cupcakes, which seems like a victory if Hunk does say so himself. Pidge can see that he does, but there’s still a notable lack of people. Oh right, duh, Shiro wanted to go jogging and he wanted someone to keep him from overdoing it, but Lance volunteered for that which means they’re probably less jogging, more chilling on a park bench while Lance gripes about whoever he has a crush on this week, or maybe about Keith. Pidge thinks she’d like to see some citations or firsthand evidence supporting that conclusion, but okay sure, Hunk, whatever you need to tell yourself — all rattled off between the two of them as easily as breathing.

Which should be all well and good, if you ask Hunk, because he’s addressing his need for some interpersonal communication and Pidge hopefully isn’t getting too stressed out. With most people, small-talk is one of her least favorite of all possible things. But she’s learned how to handle it with the band, and she’s told Hunk before that she he makes it easier than anybody else, with Shiro and Matt in a very close tie for second place. So, really, they should be fine.

Except Pidge shakes her head when Hunk asks about her plans for the day and says, “You’re stress-cooking. Who do I have to hurt.”

“Ugh, _no one_?” With most of his strawberries diced up how Shiro likes them and the rest left whole (which is how Lance and Pidge both like them), Hunk pouts at the selection of kiwis, mangoes, and apples. Which one to go with next… He rolls his eyes and grumbles when Pidge loudly clears her throat at him. “You don’t have to hurt anybody because it wouldn’t help, okay? I’m not stressed because anyone did something wrong, it’s just all kinda messy and I dunno, it’s like… _Ugggggh_.”

“You say that, and I say I could at least hack somebody’s phone for you.” As Hunk slices up an apple, she sighs and idly swings her legs, batting her bare heels against the cabinet. “So, if you’re _really_ set on not letting me get vengeance for you, I’m gonna guess… Lance or Shiro?”

“Pidge, I don’t condone vengeance in _general_ —”

“Says the guy who helped me steal the strings off Lotor’s guitar, _and_ all of his spares, when he didn’t listen to Shiro and talked him off the wagon.” Pidge is smirking as much as she can when she’s concerned and making a point that involves such a depressing incident.

Frowning at her only seems to bolster her commitment to that smirk. She’s almost _smiling_ as she reminds Hunk, “Oh, _and_ you’re the guy who told me that, if I wanted to slash the tires on Lotor’s piece of shit Maserati, I should only cut up three of them ‘cause then his insurance most likely wouldn’t cover it. Then you volunteered to keep watch for me and would have, if Lance hadn’t threatened to rat us out to Ulaz for it. _And_ you’re the guy who yells at anyone who even remotely tailgates him, and only _didn’t_ cut off Lotor’s ponytail while he was sleeping because Shiro caught you and got _disappointed_ —”

“Hey, Lotor is a special exception!” Hunk huffs, arranging his apple slices around the fruit-plate. “I only wouldn’t call him the worst because I trust what Shiro says about Lotor’s parents—”

“Man, Shiro tones them _down_ , if anything.” Cringing, Pidge ruffles her own bedhead. “I’m taking Scientific Ethics with his Mother this term and it’s _horrible_. Honerva’s smug, and self-satisfied, and pointlessly cruel. She’s a total lush, she _always_ reeks like a distillery. But it’s a distillery full of stink-bombs and the stink-bombs are full of this rancid, probably overpriced perfume, and she actually thinks no one can tell. She’s colder than a meat-locker and most of my classmates are _terrified_ of her even though she never really makes good on any threats, like…?”

Pidge shudders over the rim of her mug. “After everything he’s put Shiro through and how much of a douche he’s been to everybody else, I don’t _want_ to feel bad for Lotor? I _definitely_ don’t want to understand his perspective about anything? But God, if Honerva is anything like that at home, I can kinda see how he wound up… y’know, like himself.”

Although he chuckles at Pidge’s turn of phrase, Hunk soon agrees that she has a point. “Plus, I mean? I’d say it means that you’re _better_ than he is? You can understand how he wound up the way he did but still get that he’s in the wrong and want him held accountable. _Lotor_ refused to believe Shiro wasn’t cheating on him until Shiro dragged him to the community center on one of his A.A. Tuesdays. So, like…”

Hunk pauses, furrowing his brow. “Why are you smiling at me? What’d I do?”

“Answered my question for me,” Pidge tells him before chugging the rest of her coffee and handing her mug to Hunk for a refill. “I’m telling you about stuff and it’s making you cheer up a bit, even while we’re having Lotor-talk, so… I’m guessing that Lance and Shiro _aren’t_ telling you about something and you’re _worried_? Also, please don’t cut my mango for me, I wanna gnaw on it.”

“Of course you do.” With Lance, he’d just toss the mango over, but Pidge isn’t always great at catching things before she’s eaten. So, Hunk curls her hand around it and sits back by his mug. Pulling Shiro’s laptop over from where Keith left it, he sighs. “Anyway, I get that they don’t need to tell me everything, but…? And I trust that they’re not keeping earth-shatteringly big secrets from us, _but_ …?”

“But what if they _are_ and that’s why you’re poking around Shiro’s computer?” Pidge says around a mouthful of fruit.

“No. I mean, yes to, ‘But what if they are,’ but I’m just checking my email.”

Not that there’s all that much for Hunk to check. The same morning round of spam from places where he’s shopped online before, as if he really needs to know about all the things on Amazon that he can’t currently justify buying. A forward chain from his Grandma, which is only not deeply annoying because at least she only forwards Hunk stories about cute, courageous animals pulling off incredible feats of bravery, and this one comes with pictures. Hunk’s myriad word of the day emails offer: _“sphallolalia”_ (“‘Flirtatious talk that leads nowhere,’” Hunk says with a huff. “God, this is irritatingly suited to this morning”); _“snakebitten”_ (“‘Unlucky, doomed to misfortune.’ Gosh, that’s cheerful”); _“quidnunc”_ (“Why wouldn’t you just say, ‘gossip’? How pretentious do you have to be to say that,” Pidge grumbles, munching on her mango); _“saudade”_ (“‘A deep emotional state of melancholic longing for a person or thing that is absent’ — oh, that’s just _depressing_ , isn’t it, Pidge?”); and _“callipygian”_ (Hunk doesn’t know how Shiro would or wouldn’t appreciate having it applied to him, but Lance at least always likes having his backside complimented).

Pursing her lips, Pidge gives Hunk one of the most judgmental looks he’s ever seen on her face. “Just because he _likes_ it doesn’t mean I’m gonna tell him that he has a nice ass,” she says. “ _You_ tell Lance how nice you think his butt is, if you’re in love with it so much.”

“I’m not _in love_ with his butt!” Hunk blushes but all the same, he’s grinning. Teasing with Pidge just feels natural, and right, and _good_ like that. “I just think that his self-esteem’s been kinda fragile lately, so maybe he could use some more compliments than usual until he’s _feeling better_. And probably until he gets more used to Keith.”

“Well, I think that there’s a line between taking care of each other and spoiling him.” Pidge sighs, shooting Hunk a _Very Significant Glance_ over the top of her glasses. “And you are currently leaning more toward the unhelpful side of that. Unless you’re actually his boyfriend now and didn’t tell me, in which case, spoil away.”

“Come _on_ , we’re just friends…” Not that Hunk should need to defend that statement to anybody, but he doesn’t mind indulging Pidge. Even when she rolls her eyes at him, she’s too cute about it for Hunk to really be annoyed. Clicking around through the messages he just deletes or marks as read, Hunk explains, “I mean, I don’t know? Lance is funny, and he’s clever? And he _can_ be sweet, but he can also be kinda… Not _sour_ , but also definitely _not_ sweet? And clearly, he’s like really pretty? And we’ve _always_ been really affectionate with each other—”

“Aside from you, I’ve only seen him be that level of affectionate with Plaxum and that Jeff guy,” Pidge points out. “Both of whom Lance _actually dated_. I mean, even with me and Shiro? Sure, Lance is affectionate, but not like he is with you. And considering that he’s had his tongue in Shiro’s mouth, that says a lot.”

“It probably says a lot of _gibberish_ ,” Hunk deadpans, “but yeah, sure, point totally taken.”

Pidge slouches and says nothing, looking at Hunk in a silence so pointed, she’d need a permit to carry it outside the building.

Groaning, Hunk is so glad that Lance’s lion slippers aren’t within arm’s length, because he kinda wants to throw one right now, and even if he didn’t hit Pidge in the face, he’d feel bad for trying. “Sure, fine, we’re kinda _cuddly_ with each other,” he says, not holding back on the whine that sneaks in there. “But it doesn’t _mean_ anything. Unless you count how we’ve been best friends since _forever_ , when I know that isn’t what you mean right now? He doesn’t feel like that about me.”

“Well, how do _you_ feel about him?” Pushing her glasses back up her nose, Pidge squares her jaw and tries to narrow her eyes sternly. But between the way she leans toward Hunk and the way she braces herself on the counter, the anxiety comes through. It doesn’t make any _sense_ — honestly, what does Pidge have to be _anxious_ about in this conversation? — but it’s visible.

Visible enough that Hunk can’t look her in the eye right now. Maybe he could find it in him to do that, and considering that she’s his _friend_ , he probably should? But his cheeks flush warm as he turns his eyes back to the laptop, clicking at whatever he can find and trying to ignore how he can _feel_ Pidge staring at him, zeroing in on him like a freaking _sniper_ , which is a million times more fun when it’s a game of laser-tag or paintball, and she and Lance are arguing once more over whether or not he can call justifiably himself a sharpshooter. It’s making Hunk’s skin prickle like he just got an awful jolt of static electricity, sitting here and trying to distract himself while Pidge puts him under her invisible microscope and refuses to let Hunk have a moment’s peace.

After a while, his insides are crawling badly enough that he considers opening Facebook. He doesn’t go through with it, because for one thing, Shiro prefers not to have any Facebook on his laptop, period. Hunk understands that as much as he can, given how Shiro deactivated his old account so that Maurice guy from Chicago couldn’t track him down. For another thing, Hunk can handle complicated rhythms and algorithms like they’re nothing, play kitchen MacGyver like nobody’s business, and recall first aid tricks and rules that he learned when he was eight — but he can never, ever, for the life of him, remember his own dang Facebook password. At least that gives him an excuse to keep clicking around, which still isn’t distracting him from how Pidge is _staring daggers_ at him or the way it’s kinda sorta starting to make him feel nauseated?

Maybe, if Hunk gives it some time, then this plan will work like it’s supposed to and his stomach will settle down already… Maybe if he can just find wherever Shiro hides his games — the decent ones, anyway. Hunk _knows_ that Shiro has them around here somewhere, because he has to, because why wouldn’t you keep games on your computer? Closing out of Chrome, Hunk squints at Shiro’s desktop. Nothing game-shaped, as usual. That was probably some hardcore wishful thinking — it’d strain credulity to even dream that Shiro might relax enough to let himself enjoy having some games around — but it did seem like a good idea, for a minute.

Hunk clicks to Shiro’s Documents folder next. If he were Shiro and he were looking for somewhere to hide games, out of some totally ridiculous fear of judgment or who even knows what else is going on in Shiro’s head, then he’d put them somewhere so ostensibly respectable, someplace that no one would think to criticize. But here is where Hunk hits a snag. Before he can even poke around in Shiro’s sub-folders, Hunk notices one row down at the bottom of the folder that only has one file in it. Pulling up its name, he sees, _“cwrt 427 - kogane midterm.docx”_ and has to keep himself from gasping.

Double-clicking on it, Hunk reads the title: _“Careless Whispers Of A Good Friend (Apologies to George Michael)”_

Oh God, he wrote about Shiro. Hunk would bet on it from the title alone, and skimming down the first paragraphs, he knows it.

Apparently having gone long enough without any real answers, Pidge sighs too dramatically for Hunk to tune her out. “There aren’t any subliminal messages or hidden meanings. I’m only asking how you feel about Lance. Like, sure, you think he’s funny and sweet and he has a great ass, but what does that actually _mean_?”

“Uh, not to derail?” Hunk tells her. “But what d’you think it means if Keith left his essay about Shiro right where Shiro can find it?”

Although she starts protesting to the tune of something else entirely, Pidge quickly trails off into a bemused, mildly offended noise. Unless he wants to repeat himself, Hunk can only shrug at her, but that gets her to haul a chair over to his side. Leaning against Hunk’s shoulder, she frowns at the file name and lets out the sort of low whistle that she usually saves for someone who’s gone and seriously impressed her — which Keith might well have done.

“Jesus,” she sighs. “He is _really_ making it out like Shiro’s a fairy-tale prince, isn’t he.”

“Well, I dunno?” Hunk shrugs. “If anybody’s gonna be a Disney prince around here, why _not_ Shiro? He fits the bill.”

“Because Disney needs a fat prince who’s a main love interest and Shiro probably doesn’t want to be any kind of prince.” It’s more than a bit awkward, given their height difference, but Pidge tugs Hunk around and leans up enough to put her chin on his shoulder. “I’m just saying, I’d rather see you as a Disney prince than Shiro, and he’d probably agree with me.”

Hunk huffs. “Well, I’m saying that we need _breakfast_ before I can read the rest of this essay…”

“So make it already and we can do that. Tell Lance and Shiro to suck it up and feed themselves like adults.”

“Okay, _rude_?”

“Lance knows how to cook,” Pidge snaps. “Not as well as you, but he can make sure they eat.”

“We are having breakfast _together_ , okay?” Hunk tries to put on his best Serious Face, but all it gets him is a pointed, skeptical quirk of Pidge’s eyebrow. “You had a rough time of midterms and you’re here. Us three stupid boys have the day off. Battle of the Bands is coming up and everybody’s stressed about _something_. I am making us all an amazing breakfast and we are eating it _together_ , like a _family_.”

With a sigh, Pidge backs off of Hunk’s shoulder and narrows her eyes at him. While she considers what he’s told her, Hunk can see the gears turning in her head. That’s a lot of gears, too, with a brain like hers. Every single one of them is just spinning, spinning, spinning, all chugging away together and probably working as fast as she can get them to go. Probably as hard as she can get them to go, too, if the pout she’s wearing and the tensed up, impatient hunch of her shoulders are any accurate indication. It’s all making Hunk’s chest feel tighter and his skin feel squirmy. He wants to scoop her up into a hug — not _apologize_ , exactly? Maybe for making her think so hard before she’s had more to eat than the juiciest-looking mango, but otherwise, Hunk’s pretty sure he isn’t wrong — but before he can act, Pidge closes the laptop.

“Okay, Steven Universe,” she deadpans, smirking fondly. “Together breakfast first, _then_ we read Keith’s essay.”

*** * ***

On one hand, Lance and Shiro don’t keep them waiting too much longer, which Hunk appreciates.

On the other, though, hoping they’d maybe go talk outside and do little else was apparently expecting too much of them.

In fairness, neither of them’s _terribly_ sweaty, so there’s no grounds to complain about them overdoing anything. But there’s still a sheen of it in Shiro’s hair and _both_ of them have damp stains around their pits. There _must_ be something wonky going on, if Shiro actually got Lance to jog with him instead of simply watching out so Shiro didn’t push himself too hard. So, not only are they keeping _something_ to themselves, but it’s something wonky and Lance specifically went out of his way to keep Hunk from learning what it is. Jeez, maybe this together-breakfast isn’t _overdue_ , but it sure seems like it’s right on freaking schedule.

Worse yet, Lance wins rock-paper-scissors for the shower, which leaves Hunk to adjust his timing for making breakfast. No, that isn’t _hard_ for him to manage. But it just goes so much more easily when Hunk _isn’t_ fighting off the impulse to squint at Shiro as if he’s one of those hidden picture optical illusion puzzles and staring long enough will show Hunk a picture of a talking cat who can tell him why two of his most very favorite people are acting cagier than an ASPCA adoption center. If not that, Hunk would accept a fuller version of what’s going on with Keith and Shiro without making him wait to read the essay, but he’s even less likely to find that then the Cliff’s Notes on whatever all Lance and Shiro did out on their jog.

At least when Lance is done cleaning up, Hunk’s got a good-sized stack of pancakes ready and everyone’s eggs are either done or pretty close. As an added bonus, Lance has decided to put on something that’s more comfortable for both of them. His blue lion slippers, his faux-silk pajama bottoms, and an old My Chemical Romance t-shirt that’s relaxed on him instead of suffocatingly, self-insistently tight. Of course, he still looks pretty, but when he leans against the counter to observe and scrutinize Hunk’s bacon-making process, Hunk can focus on his pan without fighting off a blush. He can hear Lance chatter about how one strip seems like it isn’t crispy enough to flip yet and not catch himself thinking how much he’d rather hear Lance sing, “What Makes You Beautiful” or “Can’t Take My Eyes Off Of You,” no matter who he was singing for.

What Hunk _can’t_ do, apparently, is get through his cooking without Lance giving him a _Look_ that makes no sense.

He’s leaning on the other side of the stove when he sends it Hunk’s way. The bacon’s almost done, save the few strips that Lance wants _extra_ crispy, and for a moment, Hunk isn’t sure he’s seeing something _real_. Not that he’s flashing back like Shiro or shutting down like Pidge or dissociating like both of them can do sometimes — but when Hunk glances over to fill him in on the state of the bacon, Lance has his lips pressed into a tight, thin line and his frown is so deep, it could be the Marianas Trench of facial expressions. That alone makes Hunk turn to Pidge instead, ensconced in Her Spot at the table, all so he can escape the weird sensation like something slithering around his chest. Hearing his report, she gives him a thumbs up but stays focused on the round of Tetris she’s playing on Hunk’s old Gameboy Color. Okay, that makes perfect sense, and when Hunk looks back at Lance, his face is going to make sense now too, Hunk’s _certain_ of that.

But Lance’s face does _not_ make sense. If anything, it’s gotten worse. On top of everything else, something soft glimmers in Lance’s eye, and Hunk can’t begin to guess what it could be. It’s eager but not mischievous, yearning but not hopeful, warm but not particularly forthcoming, and obvious but not self-explanatory. Worst of all, it’s focused entirely on Hunk himself.

After a moment, though, it disappears as Lance groans himself into a full-bodied slouch. “Okay _fine_ ,” he huffs. “ _Don’t_ tell me what the Hell happened while me and Shiro were out. Like I even want to know that anyway.”

“Why do you think that something happened,” Pidge says flatly, every syllable unimpressed to the point of sounding _bored_. Her only concession to Lance is turning down the volume on her game. “Because if you’re gonna say stuff like that, I think we deserve to hear some evidence.”

“Ha! So something _did_ happen, didn’t it!”

“How do you get _that_ out of me telling you to provide _evidence_?” And there goes the façade of boredom, but at least she tried.

“Because you telling me to come up with evidence means that there’s something I could find,” Lance insists like he’s a regular Sherlock Holmes and cracked his case. With a smug, half-smile twisting up his lips, he straightens up a bit and tells them, “You two have been giving each other weird looks since we got back, and don’t think I missed the way you looked at Shiro—”

“You mean with our eyes?” Pidge scoffs. “You know, like how _most_ people look at each other?”

“No, jeez! I mean, like… You _know_ …” Huffing, Lance flaps his arms in front of his chest. His agitation’s clear, but nothing else comes through.

Glancing over his shoulder at Pidge, Hunk really hopes she has an idea for how to handle this. If the way she’s wrinkling her nose is any indication, though, he probably won’t like what she’s thinking. Even if she doesn’t treat this like some kind of game, toying with Lance unnecessarily and no doubt getting him all worked up, then she’s probably going to be tight-lipped. Which is fair enough when there’s something that she isn’t obligated to discuss with anyone, much less whoever she decides to open up to? But Hunk can’t in good conscience grouse about Lance and Shiro keeping secrets, then do the same himself.

He says, “Keith left his essay for Ryner on Shiro’s computer, and we saw it, and we started reading, and oh my _God_ , man, he wrote it about _Shiro_ and we really, _really_ wanna finish,” at the same time that Pidge tells Lance, “Obviously, we _don’t_ know what you’re talking about or else we wouldn’t need to _ask_. See? That’s a claim that’s actually backed up by evidence.”

Lance starts throwing out a retort but trails off, gaping at them silently.

He blinks at Hunk. Apparently unsatisfied, he turns his head and blinks at Pidge. Wrinkling his nose, he shifts his gaze between the two of them with an expression that, for once, Hunk can’t read as easily as a picture book. With a heavy, dramatic sigh, Lance folds his arms over his chest and glares at Hunk and Pidge as if he can guilt-trip them into a better explanation with his eyes alone. Hunk can’t say for Pidge, but _his_ lungs sure are writhing like they want him to open up and confess already, like telling the truth, the whole truth, and so on is the only way to make them chill out and let him breathe like normal.

“Clearly, _one_ of you is lying to me,” Lance says slowly. “And sorry, Pidge, but I trust Hunkules.”

“Yeah, you _would_.” She rolls her eyes a bit more than is called for in this situation, but on the plus, she huffs and admits, “And you should too, since… Yeah, what he said, basically?”

Hunk shrugs and forces a wobbly, sheepish grin. “It’s not like we were _intentionally_ spying, but—”

“Yeah, sure,” Lance says, “I bet the document just gained sentience and opened up itself?”

“Okay, so, _that_ part was intentional, but we didn’t dig it up on purpose—”

“Technically, _we_ didn’t dig up anything,” Pidge chimes in. “Hunk found it while checking his email and piqued my curiosity—”

“Make me sound _more nefarious_ , why don’t you? I only asked you what you thought it _meant_ —”

“Which obviously meant I needed to come see it for myself,” she says as though this is perfectly self-evident and shouldn’t need to be explained. “I mean, come on, how am I going to answer a question like that unless I know the full extent of what we’re _dealing_ with?”

“Or here’s a thought?” Lance snaps. “Just putting this out there? But we could respect Keith’s privacy and not read anything. Leave the essay alone and pretend this _never happened_.”

“What, why?” Pidge bites right back. “Because we might figure out that Keith’s okay and then you couldn’t hate him?”

“I _don’t_ hate him, okay! Well, not _that_ much anymore.” Pausing, probably to get his thoughts together, Lance tries to square his shoulders and hug himself simultaneously. He’s glaring at Pidge harder than a diamond, which sure makes Hunk shrink in on himself. But Pidge, on the other hand, steels herself and peers right back at Lance with one of those stares she gets like she can see into someone’s soul and pick apart everything that makes them tick.

Also, Lance is shooting his own cause in the foot a little bit, because he’s trying _so hard_ and for the most part, comes off looking like he’s arguing with Ryou, Keith, or Lotor and can’t find the comeback that he wants in time.

But however he’s feeling, Lance keeps his back mostly straight as he huffs and tells Pidge, “Look, I _know_ that I haven’t exactly been Keith’s biggest fan, but he makes Shiro happy and I am a fan of _that_. I love that more than I love Kesha—”

“There’s only _one_ person in the world who you love more than Kesha and I know for a fact that his name isn’t _Shiro_.” Gloating is super-inappropriate right now, and Hunk’s glad that scooping the bacon onto a plate gets him out of looking at Pidge while she does it. At least she stays on topic, though, saying, “But if you’re such a fan of Shiro, then why don’t you want to let us read Keith’s essay? It could help us figure out what his deal is, or how to help Shiro win him back, or about twenty-five other things—”

“Because he probably didn’t _mean_ to leave it on Shiro’s laptop, okay?” Lance looks at Hunk to back him up, then sighs when all Hunk gives him is an, _“I don’t know”_ sound. “…Oh my god, you guys seriously thought Keith left his essay there on purpose, didn’t you?”

“Well, _yeah_?” Hunk protests, a bit meekly but he has to defend himself and Pidge about this, not least since Pidge is looking like she might take Lance’s head off, next time she gets a chance to speak. Shrugging, Hunk says, “Look, I know it probably sounds like a dumb rom-com thing? But if Shiro can write songs about Keith, then of course Keith can write things about Shiro. And like, if Shiro ever plays those songs for Keith? He’d want Keith to know it was about him? And Keith would deserve to know that, so like, if he’s writing about Shiro, then doesn’t Shiro deserve to—”

Lance groans until he gets Hunk to stop talking. “I’m pretty sure there’s a difference between a song that Shiro _intended_ to perform in front of people, and an essay that Keith told Pidge he didn’t even want to write, much less _share_ with anybody else but _Ryner_.”

“But he _did_ say that he wanted to share with Shiro,” Pidge pipes up. Under the weight of two skeptical glances, she slumps her shoulders and admits, “Okay, fine. He said that he was kinda maybe _thinking_ about letting Shiro see the essay. But it’s on Shiro’s hard drive, and Hunk’s right about how Shiro deserves to read it? So, even if Keith just forgot to delete the file—”

“Didn’t Keith _also_ say he doesn’t want us _gossiping_ about him and Shiro?” Lance points out.

“Well, yeah, and look at how _that_ turned out. It’s not like we could ruin things any further if we at least know what we’re gossiping about.” Pidge shrugs as if this turn of events leaves them with no other option. For all Hunk’s on her side about the issue of to read or not to read, he really wishes that she _wouldn’t_ act like they aren’t making a real choice about this or make that face like she’s already won something that wasn’t a contest in the first place.

When Lance refuses to respond to that, Pidge mirrors at him, hunching over and frowning at him in a deliberate exaggeration of what Lance is doing, which in turn makes Lance frown more deeply. As Hunk starts dishing things up on everybody’s favorite Disney princess plates — Tiana for Pidge, Jasmine for Lance, Aurora for Shiro, and Ariel for himself — he can’t even manage to roll his eyes. Jeez, if he’d known that this would happen, he would’ve left Keith’s essay where it was. They were just supposed to read it together after breakfast, or at the very least tell Shiro to take a look-see at it, not end up with Lance and Pidge having a stare-down when they know that it’s no good for both of them but neither one of them will bend. This was supposed to be _fun_ and maybe helpful in whatever’s going on with Keith and Shiro, not yet another reason for Lance and Pidge to disagree like this.

But Hunk can’t dwell on regret too much when he hears a chair dragging back against the linoleum. Lance is still closer to him than to the table and Pidge hasn’t moved from her seat either. They aren’t glaring at each other anymore — and yup, there’s Shiro. Sitting there in pajamas with his ponytail still slightly damp because he can only stand so much of the blowdryer. Muttering a quiet, _“Thanks, Lancey-Lance”_ when he shuffles over with a mug of coffee. Reaching for his laptop—

“Wait!” Hunk calls out, more loudly than he meant to. With everyone staring at _him_ now, he shrugs apologetically and says, “Uh, you maybe don’t want to do that, Shiro? See, I was checking my email, and I got distracted—”

“And you found Keith’s essay, opened it, saw that he wrote it about me, and now you don’t know if you want me to read it after all,” Shiro says like he’s reading the back of the world’s most boring cereal box. Taking a long sip of coffee, he glances from Hunk to Lance to Pidge, and sighs when he comes up. “What? I could hear you arguing about it in the bathroom. You guys are _not_ as quiet as you think.”

“Sorry, man…” Hunk wilts. “I just… Got carried away?”

“Yeah… We could’ve waited for you, probably?” Pidge strains her face, forcing a huge, _“Please find our behaviors endearing and forgive us?”_ grin.

“I’m sorry for talking about it behind your back,” Lance says, “but _not_ for telling these two that we shouldn’t read it.”

Shiro briefly knots his brow at the three of them, but it dissipates quickly and leaves him looking _tired_. “Look, I’m reading it after breakfast,” he tells them, softly but in a way that leaves no room for doubt. “I don’t know if Keith left the essay for me to find or if he just forgot to delete it when he was done. But it’s here now, and I have _so many_ questions that it could answer, and I want—”

“Are you _sure_ about that, man?” Lance hugs himself tighter and lets his voice go softer than it has all day. “I mean, I get it, you think that it might help you out with Keith, but what if it _doesn’t_? What if you find something you don’t wanna see? Or what if, I don’t know, but he probably wrote about Chicago in there, right? What if that’s more triggering than helpful?”

It takes Shiro a long moment to find an answer, but Hunk at least breathes easier for that. Lance has a really good point — one that Hunk hadn’t even thought about ’til now — and thankfully, Shiro’s giving it actual consideration. After another sip of coffee, he nods.

“That could definitely happen and I accept the risk,” he says. “If you guys want to read it with me… Will you promise _only_ to do it as emotional guardians? Like, absolutely no gossiping about it afterwards, especially not to Keith. Just read the essay, look out for me during and maybe after, and try not to hate me for whatever all Keith put in there about anything I did—”

“We are not going to _hate_ you,” Pidge tells him gently, then glares at Hunk and Lance ’till they agree.

“Yeah, like?” Hunk shrugs. “Maybe we can’t _get it_ get it? But we’re a fam, right?”

“We _know_ you weren’t in a good way back then, Shirito. And we _know_ that you regret some of what you did.” Although Lance doesn’t quite manage a reassuring smile, this is the most genuinely confident he’s sounded in a while. “If you accept the risks of reading that, then we do, too. One for all, right?”

Even in the face of his bandmates _Three Musketeers_ -ing him, Shiro doesn’t fake a smile or arch an eyebrow at them or offer any indication about if he finds this cute or not. All he does is nod and say, “Okay, good. But first, Hunk put a lot of work into making breakfast, and I don’t know about you? But I’m not reading any of this before I’ve eaten.”

*** * ***

As together breakfasts go, the band’s had worse.

They’ve had much better, too. But in fairness, it’s not every day that you spend breakfast on the edge of your seat, trying not to rush but also incapable of waiting that much longer. Never mind the part where everyone’s jazzed up to curl up in the living room and read something together, and that something isn’t the latest popular YA series release or George RR Martin finally dropping _The Winds of Winter_ , but an essay that, as Lance reminds them while he and Shiro do the dishes, may not have been meant for their eyes in the first place.

Despite his objections about Keith’s privacy and respecting it, Lance still ends up right there with the rest of them, stretched out on the sofa with his head resting on Hunk’s thigh and his fingers clutching a stack of paper that, even double-sided, required Shiro’s heavy-duty stapler to fix together. Given how long the essay turned out to run, Shiro relented about tossing together a PDF copy for Hunk and Pidge to load up on their tablets — as long as they don’t keep said copies when this is over. Like Lance, Shiro prefers the hard-copy, and like Hunk, his lap gets requisitioned for someone else. Although Hunk still doesn’t really get why they need a loveseat, he guesses that he can’t argue with one thing: it’s the perfect length for Pidge to lie down and drape her legs over one of the armrests, then put her head in Shiro’s lap.

They’ve only barely gotten settled when Lance decides he needs to groan. “Am I allowed to comment on this while we’re reading?”

Shiro scrunches up his face, bemused but not offended. “You _can_ , I suppose? I can’t stop you. But whether or not I take it seriously depends on what you have to say?”

“For one thing, I hate the title.” Lance shifts a bit against Hunk’s leg, but doesn’t make a move to sit up or face Shiro directly. “Like, okay, we get it: you love George Michael and Keith knows that you love George Michael. Was a Wham! lyric _really_ necessary here?”

“I mean, third-party stab in the dark here?” Pidge offers. “But I’d guess he slapped the title on about five seconds before emailing Ryner.”

“What was your other thing?” Shiro says.

“Another question that we probably can’t answer.” Not that it stops Lance from asking, “Why the hay does Keith keep calling himself a street rat like it’s a _bad_ thing? Like, he did it last week at the record store too, and I get it, Lotor tried to insult him like that? But come on, Aladdin is the _hero_. He saves the day _because_ of what he learned from living as a street rat.”

“I dunno, I feel like he’s being prickly with that?” says Pidge. “This introduction makes me feel like, ‘prickly’ might be an understatement.”

“Kind of, yeah…” For all he’s agreeing with them, which should be _good_ , Shiro has a weird look on his face as he does so. He’s frowning concernedly at the page he’s on, dragging his eyes up and down it over and over and over again, like he can’t quite make out what he’s reading. “This is _abnormally_ prickly for Keith, though. For how he used to be, I mean. It’s making me look at all the talks we’ve had lately a bit differently, but—”

“But nothing,” Lance tells him. “Reading now, overthinking later.”

Somehow, Hunk gets the feeling that it’s gonna be easier saying that than sticking to it — not least because he’s barely past the introduction when he starts groaning. He doesn’t _mean_ to talk about it and distract everybody, but apparently, the noise does that enough to make Pidge ask what the Hell is wrong with him. For want of something to do with his hand, other than holding a tablet or scrolling, Hunk drops one hand into Lance’s hair and musses his fingers through it.

“This Grandpa Bill guy is the _worst_ is what’s wrong with me,” Hunk says, once he’s centered himself again.

“That’s way too polite,” Shiro says without looking up from his copy of the essay. “I mean, Keith doesn’t even know _half_ of the stuff that I ever heard from Bryce’s grandfather, so it’s not like he’s toning anything down on purpose? But there was a reason why we had tutoring sessions at _my_ family’s house.”

Cringing, Pidge says, “Why would he even think Keith was a Chinese Communist?”

“He used to say the same thing about me until _Bryce_ told him I’m Japanese.” Rolling his eyes, Shiro lets slip an unmistakable, _“Ugh”_ and shakes his head. “Whenever I tried telling him so, he’d go, ‘Yeah, likely story’ and spew a bunch of racist crap. I mean, Lotor’s father terrified me off the wagon that one time, but I’d pick Dean Zarkon over Grandpa Bill, any day.”

“Speaking of Grandpas?” Lance pipes up. “Is this story about why Keith didn’t like _yours_ going where I think it is?”

With a curious tilt of his head, Shiro acquiesces that he doesn’t know what Lance is thinking but yeah, the story is probably headed exactly where Lance thinks. When Lance groans a few moments later, Shiro sighs and kneads at his temple, then at the bridge of his nose. Distinctly, he has the slouch and tightly-knit brow of someone who really wishes that he weren’t having this conversation right here, right now.

“Okay, I’m not saying that my Grandfather _wasn’t_ homophobic, because he definitely had his moments?” He groans, but from the looks of it, Shiro probably grabbed his nose too hard. “But he worked on it after he and my Grandmother moved in with us because he loved me. Also, my Mom and Dad took him to task on how much I loved him and how much it was hurting me for him to be so casually homophobic. The biggest squabble Grandfather Namesake and I ever had was about my _music_ , not me being gay. He just didn’t always think about how some of the things he said _sounded_ to me? Or how they could come off in light of me being gay?”

“Yeah, fine, I guess?” Lance sighs. “But that still sounds pretty homophobic, to me.”

“Trust me, I heard way worse from people at school. And there, I couldn’t even _object_ too much without risk of outing myself in a place where I _did not_ want to be outed…” Grumbling like he might be accepting that Lance probably won’t budge about this, Shiro seems to consider stopping — but then he tacks on, “Like, I saw the crap that some of the guys who did the plays or art club got, even when they _weren’t_ into other guys. I heard how most of the school talked about the GSA kids _and_ our chem teacher, because he was the faculty advisor for it? But sure, my Grandfather was the worst because he _tried_ to work on his homophobia and wasn’t always _perfect_.”

“That _isn’t_ what I’m saying and you _know_ it.” Lance narrows his eyes at the ceiling in the way that Hunk can guess he _wants_ to narrow them at Shiro but doesn’t currently know if he should. “All I’m saying is that you’re _allowed_ to just say that your Grandfather hurt you, even if he didn’t _mean_ it. ‘Not as bad’ as someone else is still _bad_.”

Reclining more against the loveseat, Shiro blinks over at the window. Hunk can’t watch him _and_ keep reading, but he also can’t miss the morose notes in Shiro’s voice as he tells Lance, “My Grandfather was complicated. He was a difficult man and no, we didn’t always get along. Yes, some of what he said or did _hurt_ me. But he _tried_ to do better in ways Keith didn’t see and couldn’t write about. If you can read Keith’s second anecdote with him and say he didn’t love me, then I don’t know what to tell you.”

Lance grumbles wordlessly. After he reads on, he admits that okay, he hasn’t finished the whole scene but that looks an awful lot like love to him. “I’m just saying, _bonito_? Him loving you didn’t mean he wasn’t _also_ homophobic, and you _don’t_ have to defend him.”

“I’m _not_ defending him,” Shiro says, sounding quite a bit defensive, if anyone asks Hunk. “I’m saying he had layers—”

“You said that _Lotor_ had layers—”

“Lotor _does_ have layers. The fact that he’s a jerk and I don’t wanna be with him doesn’t mean—”

“Okay, see, if Lotor has layers, then I wanna say that he has layers like an onion.” Glancing down when he feels Lance shift again, Hunk sees that he’s rolled onto his side. One hand holds his copy of Keith’s essay so it won’t fall off his leg, but he’s propped up like he wants to look at Shiro while telling him, “Except then, I’d feel bad for onions and also for _Shrek_. Because that was a good movie and it’s not onions’ _fault_ if they make people cry, but _Lotor_ is a bastard-coated jerk with a great, big nougaty center of _godawful, entitled douchebag_ —”

“If you’d let me _finish_?” Shiro doesn’t quite snap, but that tone of voice is enough to keep Hunk very dedicatedly focused on reading. “Lotor has layers. Yes, most of them are some kind of jerk. But others _aren’t_. The problem is that, to get to all his better qualities, you kind of have to deal with the jerk—”

“Shirito, I love you, but this sounds like you _defending_ your llama-quiznakking, giant bag of dicks ex-boyfriend. _**Again**_. Which _concerns_ me.”

“I’m not trying to defend him. I’m trying to tell you that Lotor’s _not_ a monster. He’s incredibly damaged, massively unhealthy—”

“Completely annoying?” Lance offers.

“Yes, he definitely can be, but…” Shiro sighs heavily, like there’s something that he wants to say but can’t. “I want to believe that Lotor can get _better_. Or at least that he can get _less bad_ ,” he says. “I’m not holding my breath or anything? And if he ever does get better, I don’t want him to do it around me because we mix with each other like bleach and ammonia, so…”

There’s an, _“I don’t know”_ noise from down in Hunk’s lap, then Shiro tells him, “Bleach and ammonia make chloramine if you mix them together. One of the guys I played lacrosse with in high school wound up in the ER after he had a party while his parents were out of town. Not because of the party, but because he tried to clean up where someone had used the kitchen floor as a toilet.”

“So, wait, one of your lacrosse teammates _literally shit himself_ all over this freaking party…” Lance probably deserves a medal for the fact that he’s restraining himself when he very obviously wants to laugh. “And one of the other guys went to the ER from trying to clean it up… Because he made toxic gas… Out of _cleaning supplies_?”

“Yes, that is… essentially the story,” Shiro says tightly, and sighs in fond exasperation as Lance cracks up, burying his face in Hunk’s legs. “It’s also why I will never forget that you can’t mix ammonia and bleach.”

“Uh, if anyone wants my opinion? I think Shiro and Lotor mix like matches and gasoline.” Hunk has one hand raised, but drops it with a blush when Shiro and Pidge both arch their eyebrows at him. He musses it over the back of Lance’s head, hoping that maybe, it’ll help calm him down faster. “Like, I dunno, man? I’m just saying: ammonia and bleach really obviously don’t belong together, even if somebody might _think_ that they do? But it’s not that you and Lotor _don’t_ go together, because yeah, I don’t _like_ him but you keep saying you guys had good times together, and what I saw wasn’t _always_ miserable. But putting you together is also dangerous because, y’know… Something could explode and everyone could die?”

“Very poetic, Hunk,” Pidge deadpans, which in turn makes Shiro tweak her nose and tell her to be nice.

“Anyway, what I really wanted to ask is…” With a huff, he turns his eyes back to his tablet and tries to find his spot again. Taking a moment to look at Lance, Hunk smiles a bit to see that he’s calmed down, rolled over, and started reading again, though it seems like he’s skimming a bit. “I’m a few pages ahead of you guys, I think? Or at least I’m a few pages ahead of _Lance_ , but… Oh my God, is this next scene the one where Keith went out into the blizzard and you brought him back?”

“Oh, it definitely is.” All Shiro gives Hunk’s skeptical pout is a shrug and, “What? I’m a little bit past that.”

“Oh my _God_ ,” Lance groans. He pauses for a second, eyes darting around his current page. “Yeah, oh my God, he is _so_ not allowed to bag on _you_ for making stories sound too nice—”

Shiro splutters. “Wait, what?”

“That’s what he said about this story at the record store!” Like a nervous twitch, Lance huffs and butts one of his heels against the armrest. “He brought it up, and I told him what you said about it, and he was all, ‘Oh my God, Shiro’s _so_ sentimental, leave it to him to make it all sound nice because he left out the part where I thought he expected me to pay my share of the rent with _sex_.’ But he didn’t bring that part up, either! There’s just these weird little _allusions_ —”

“Pretty fancy word there, for the guy who’s gonna quiznakking marry the word, ‘Quiznak.’” With that said, though, Pidge gives a pensive sigh and admits, “But that _is_ a pretty weird choice for him to make, and Ryner’s probably gonna call him on it. Assuming it was a _choice_ and not just him forgetting stuff in the heat of the moment.”

“My money’s on the latter,” Lance says. He reads on for another moment, then adds, “Also, can you guys please pretend that you didn’t hear all of that stuff I said just now?”

“All of what stuff you said just now,” says Shiro without missing a beat.

Hunk concurs, “My lips are sealed, Lancey-Lance.”

Pidge snorts. “All I heard was you getting down on one knee and giving, ‘Quiznak’ a diamond engagement ring.”

“Keith’s version of the story _is_ sort of… Not _throwing_ me? But it’s confusing me a bit, I guess?” Shiro heaves his heaviest sigh so far, and when Hunk looks over at him, he’s frowning at a page and twisting his white fringe around one finger. “I mean, what he said to Lance makes it sound like Keith thinks I _willfully_ distorted the story, which? Okay, I left out that particular assumption of his because I thought Lance hated him—”

“To be fair, I kinda did.” Lance shrugs, nudging his shoulders against Hunk’s leg.

“But I remember some of this happening _very_ differently…” As he drags his fingers out of his hair, Shiro lets his frown melt into more of a pout. It makes him look kinda lost and so much younger, and very much like he might need a hug. “Like, yes, we wound up on my back, in the show. Yes, he cried on me. I was crying too, for a bit in there. But I _definitely_ remember hugging him, then him throwing himself into it too hard and catching me off-guard? Except, he was the sober one between the two of us and he doesn’t remember that, and… I don’t know, I don’t think I was _that_ drunk, but—”

“Human memory is always unpredictable,” Pidge pipes up, more gently than usual. Resting her tablet on her chest, she waits for Shiro to look down at her before explaining, “There are _so many_ different factors that can influence what somebody remembers about an incident, or how they remember it happening, or which parts they don’t get down quite as well. You and Keith remembering that scene differently doesn’t mean anybody’s wrong. Frankly, given how emotionally charged it seems to have been for him, I’d trust _your_ version more than his—”

“What, like it _wasn’t_ emotionally charged for me?” Shiro’s cheeks flush pink as he mumbles an apology for cutting Pidge off. But that doesn’t stop him from saying, “Someone I cared about had just called himself a burden and tried to tell me not to help him while he was homeless and alone. He didn’t believe that I didn’t consider him in my _debt_. His assumption _worried_ me more than anything, because in my experience, people don’t conclude things like that unless they’ve had _something_ happen to them — and I wasn’t wrong, either, but I didn’t learn that until later. Then, he looked like he was going to cry and ran into a blizzard—”

“That’s what I’m talking about, though!” Pidge says, then takes a couple deep breaths to rein in that note of borderline excitement. “See, you might’ve been drinking, and I’m not saying that the scene didn’t mean anything to you, emotionally? But you can list off all these events, calmly and in more or less linear order, with no judgments about yourself or Keith. Looking at how _he_ wrote it? He keeps bringing up stuff that either already happened or hadn’t happened yet, but were not of immediate relevance to the scene. And his version is _full_ of judgments, about himself, about you, about what us Northerners think about you Texans…”

She trails off into a vague, noncommittal noise. “Basically, neither you nor Keith is _wrong_? You have slightly different memories of what happened because they’re shaped and affected by so many different factors. And personally, I trust you more than him about how the two of you wound up in the snow.”

“Oh my _GOD_ ,” Lance moans. “He is _so_ in love with you!”

Lance ends up with three sets of eyes training themselves on him, practically in unison. Hunk, for his part, knows that he’s feeling confused about whatever his buddy’s talking about, while Shiro looks perplexed and a little nauseated, and Pidge mostly looks like she couldn’t possibly be less impressed. But Lance is undeterred. Granted, he’s quite absorbed in the set of pages he keeps flicking through, but he should be able to _notice_ that nobody’s saying anything, if not feel the combined weight of three people staring at him. Then again, it wouldn’t be entirely unlike Lance to make a point of sulking until someone sucks it up and asks him first.

With a soft huff, Shiro decides to be that someone, saying, “I want to ask what you’re basing this on? But I don’t want you to keep yelling.”

“I am not _yelling_ , I’m just saying: Keith is, like, completely _so in **love**_ with you!” Which shouldn’t be news to Lance, based on what he told Hunk about his and Keith’s run-in at the record store, but he’s in the moment and he’s emotional. He gets like this, and hopefully, having Hunk gently stroke his hair will help a little bit.

At the very least, it gets Lance to turn the volume down a little as he says, “Read the scene of you and him with the reading you all that big, gay love poetry and the, ‘Blah blah, you say the sweetest things, Sir Knight,’ then _try_ to tell me that this idiot wasn’t so in love with you, it _hurts_.”

He sets his pages down on his stomach while they catch up, and really, he probably shouldn’t. Hunk gets that Lance might see this as basic consideration, waiting for everyone to literally be on the same page as he is? But on the other hand, Lance keeps jiggling one of his legs while the rest of his body is practically humming from trying to contain everything that he’s feeling right now, at this moment, which is apparently a lot. Every so often, he whines softly and wriggles around, until finally, Pidge clears her throat to call his attention back down to planet Earth.

“Okay, I’m still reading the scene?” she says. “But technically, Keith wasn’t _reading_ anything. He was reciting. And it wasn’t _poetry_ , it was a dramatic monologue that happened to be in iambic pentameter because—”

“I didn’t ask for a literary history lesson, Pidge!” Lance groans, lifting his hips only to let them drop again in short order. Not that he’s paying attention to how he was shifting some of his weight back onto Hunk’s leg, but whatever. That’s nowhere near as vexing as him flailing his legs as if he’s kicking at nothing until finally, he _sighs_ and settles down again. “My point is that there is _no excuse_ for looking at that thing with the poetry and thinking that Keith was _anything_ but head over heels, full-throttle, ass over teabagging in love with Shiro!”

Pidge snickers. “The phrase is, ‘arse over tea _kettle_ ,’ Sharpshooter.”

“I mean what I said and I said what I meant! Keith is ass over teabagging _in love_ with Shiro!”

“Okay, _Horton Hatches An Edgelord_. Whatever you say.”

Splaying his hands over his face, Lance wails. He drags his fingers up and tugs on his hair harder than Hunk likes, which only makes him louder. That, in turn, makes Shiro shrink back into the loveseat, looking more than a bit green around the gills. Hunching in on himself, he fusses his fingers through Pidge’s hair, combs the same bit of her bangs over and over, which means that action’s more for himself than her. Granted, she’s not complaining and doesn’t seem particularly miffed, but she does shoot Hunk an impatient look, like she’s trying to say that he should rein Lance in before she does it for him.

Which isn’t an idle threat from Pidge, and the way she narrows her eyes makes it seem very unlikely that she’ll be as understanding or compassionate as Hunk will be. So, he sighs and curls a hand around Lance’s wrist. Gently, he rubs his thumb across Lance’s skin in the way he’s done since they were kids, all the while whispering at him that it’s okay, he’s fine and he’s with friends, and yes, he’s feeling overwhelmed, that’s _understandable_? But he also _really_ needs to chill before he gets everybody else overwhelmed, too. Especially Shiro, because he’s looking kind of ill, not that Lance _meant_ to do that but it’s happening? And unless Lance _wants_ to make Shiro sick, can he please, please, _please_ try to calm down?

That point is the one that finally makes Lance sigh and follow Hunk in some deep breathing. After a few rounds of it, he groans softly and apologizes. Hunk’s really not sure what to make of how Lance rolls onto his side, facing away from Shiro and Pidge, and starts nuzzling at Hunk’s belly. But it’s keeping him from being loud and Hunk guesses that he doesn’t mind, so he just pets Lance’s hair and lets him have this one.

It’s another few moments before Pidge clears her throat and announces that Shiro wants to say something.

“…I can speak for myself, Pidge,” he says, sighing but not seeming terribly irritated.

“You were being too polite about letting those nerds have their moment,” she retorts. “I handled it for you.”

“But all I wanted to say was…” With a huff, Shiro bristles and sits up straighter and squirms like he’s trying to work a kink out of his back, only to melt against the loveseat. “I’m not trying to make excuses, just explaining. Yes, reading that scene, looking at that night in retrospect? It sure does look like Keith was in love with me and _yes_ , I feel like an _idiot_ for missing it. But at the time, two big factors were working against me. For one thing, I was _high_ —”

“Really?” spills out of Hunk’s mouth before he can think to stop it. Blushing, he clarifies, “Because I read a bit further while Pidge was talking about memories and stuff? And Keith says that Maurice had cut you off again, so you were low-key detoxing?”

“Yeah, sorry, that was a lie.” His lips quirk slightly as he looks at Hunk, but at least Shiro knocks it off before it looks like he’s trying to fake a smile. “Keith seemed on-edge, but I didn’t want him to worry about me or going out to the club would overwhelm him more than usual? And I didn’t think he had anything worth worrying about. Or any _ **one**_. _And_ I didn’t want to cancel a night out when I’d just had a certain… _disagreement_ with Maurice? I told Keith the first lie I could think of to explain why I seemed off.”

“Is, _‘disagreement’_ a very Shiro euphemism for, ‘He beat the ever-loving shit out of you and made you _thank_ him for it’?” Lance bites it out, then whines softly. “Sorry, that wasn’t helpful, was it? That was a really dick thing to say…”

“Kinda, yes. But I know you’re saying it because you care, you feel powerless, and you’re frustrated.”

Like Shiro can talk about any of that, with how tightly his mouth is curled up as he leans his head back. He hums, turning something over for a moment, before he tells them, “That particular incident was the second thing working against me? Keith hadn’t been in Chicago that long yet. Maurice knew I had a new roommate. He knew Keith was an old friend from back home who was younger than me and I hadn’t seen him in a few years? And I didn’t _think_ I was sharing too much — because Maurice didn’t _mind_ me having sex with other guys, but he didn’t like _details_ unless he asked me for them…?”

He trails off into a sigh that makes Pidge squeeze his knee and ask if he’s okay, but Shiro nods and goes on, “I mean, I didn’t think I was in love with Keith either, at the time? I wanted _Maurice_ to fall in love with me because I was twenty-two and stupid and thought like, ‘I know that he’s basically married to Haxus but none of his other boys-on-the-side got an offer like I did, maybe I’m special and someday, he _will_ love me back.’ So, I didn’t think that I’d fall for Keith, and I assumed that he’d never fall for me, and I didn’t _think_ that I was over-sharing about him with Maurice because Keith and I had mostly just been making out? Like, we _did_ have sex that New Year’s Eve, and there’d been a few blow-jobs, but I didn’t think of him as, ‘This guy I’m sleeping with, named Keith.’ He was more like, ‘My good friend, Keith, who I do sexual things with sometimes.’”

“Shirito?” Lance pipes up softly. “You can _Pink Flamingos_ out, if you want to? Or have me go get your Xanax?”

“Conversational safe-word,” Hunk explains, catching sight of Pidge’s completely befuddled expression. “So Shiro can tap out more easily when Lance is at risk of pushing him too hard about… y’know, _messy_ things. Ulaz suggested they try it out, see how it works.”

“God, _finally_ ,” Pidge sighs. “Can I get in on that, too? Because it can be hard to tell when I need to chill?”

“Yes, you can, and no, Lance, I don’t need my meds. Not yet, anyway. But thank you for looking out for me.” Setting his copy of the essay on the thigh that Pidge isn’t using as a pillow, Shiro curls his hands into a heart and holds it up until Lance does the same back at him. It’s nice, until Shiro puts his cheek in his hand and leans on the armrest with a sigh.

“So, yeah, I just… I thought I was fine? I wasn’t telling Maurice about the physical side of what Keith and I got up to, and that’s what he always asked or told me to shut up about with the other guys, but…” That limp, dispirited shrug is concerning, but at least Shiro seems to breathe more easily when Pidge starts brushing the back of her hand along his shin. “The stuff I told him was all like, ‘Keith aged out of the foster system, he doesn’t really have anybody, we found each other by accident, I’m helping him study for his GED exams, he’s coming out to Aunt Satomi’s with me so he won’t have to be alone on Christmas’? And I thought it was non-romantic, but…”

Another sigh and Shiro drops his gaze to his lap. “Two nights before that poetry incident, Maurice showed me off at this high-tone fundraiser party his Mother hosted at the Peninsula. I had to get prettied up so he could parade me around for a ton of his and Haxus’s _society_ peers. Most of them were so rich, they’d’ve made Lotor look middle-class. It felt like everything I did was wrong, never mind trying to keep anyone from spotting the collar that he had me wearing? There was an open bar but I knew that I couldn’t drink how much I wanted. Maurice said I’d get a reward if I _behaved_ myself, but he didn’t say what’d happen if I didn’t or how many drinks that meant, so I had to guess? I thought four would be fine. I didn’t feel that tipsy, I’d eaten a real, _decent_ dinner before he picked me up, but…”

Although he lifts his head again and tucks his fringe behind his ear, Shiro doesn’t manage to look at anyone. Hunk doesn’t like the wraithy pallor that Shiro’s getting, like his blood’s forgotten how to flow to his face, and he _really_ doesn’t like the dull, distant look that he thinks he sees creeping into Shiro’s eyes. Before Hunk can think too much about that, though, Shiro shakes his head and asks Pidge to grab his lip-chap off the coffee-table. By the time he’s done applying it, he isn’t back to _normal_? But his eyes have more life in him as he slouches back on the armrest.

“It would’ve been better if he’d just hurt me,” Shiro says, nestling his cheek back in his palm. “Or punished me. That would’ve been straightforward. Except he knew there were certain punishments that got me off, and I didn’t want to admit there was a difference… So, I stayed with him in one of the Grand Deluxe suites. He let me hit the minibar as soon as we turned in, told me I could drink whatever I wanted. Which was great until he saw me taking a hit of Vicodin with one of their little bottles of Absolut, and then it was all, ‘You know you’re playing Russian Roulette with your liver, don’t you, Takashi. Vicodin has acetaminophen, which doesn’t mix with alcohol, _Takashi_. I spent this _entire_ evening telling those respectable citizens what a _talented_ musician you are, explaining away your missteps and how many drinks you had, but oh, you think _you’re_ the one who’s _stressed_ right now, _**Takashi**_ …’”

“ _Jesus_ ,” Pidge whispers. Frowning over at her, Hunk could swear her lip is quivering and her eyes are misting over.

“Yeah, it would’ve been nice if he could’ve intervened, but…” His lip trembles as much as hers does as he looks down to his lap and says, “I’m almost done with this part, promise. But I can stop if it’s—”

“No, it’s fine. Keep going.” Even so, Pidge scrambles until she’s sitting up and tucked against his side, with Shiro’s arm around her shoulders.

Looking at them, Hunk’s not certain who’s supposed to be protecting whom.

“Well, Maurice made his _disappointment_ clearest when he had me blow him and fucked me in the shower but didn’t let me sleep in the bed or pull out the sofa. Then, he said he was going to treat me anyway, because he understood that I just couldn’t help myself…” Shiro’s sigh sounds pensive this time, not morose, but that’s not much better, really. He ruffles Pidge’s hair and she makes a discontented noise. But he still goes on, “He got me a hot stone massage at the hotel’s spa. Let me pick what I wanted for myself when he got us room service. Took me to afternoon tea and let me drink his Moët et Chandon. Took me out to the Signature Room for dinner—”

“What, is that, like? Really fancy? Super-expensive?” Lance asks earnestly.

Shiro nods. “Enough that I thought he’d be _furious_ when he caught me throwing up back in the room. Especially after he’d been treating me like a _real_ boyfriend. Except he seemed more sad than anything, and he got all _sweet_ , and he let me come in the bed with him, and he apologized for pushing me, which he basically never did — the apologizing part, I mean, he preferred making me beg for forgiveness instead…”

There’s an obvious, _“But”_ hanging in this pause, so clear that Shiro doesn’t even bother saying it: “In all of this? Any time he thought thought my mind wasn’t _completely_ fixed on him? He asked if I was thinking about Keith. Fucking me in the shower, it was all, ‘Oh, do you think Keith could do better? Could he give you more of what you _need_ than I can?’ Over lunch it was, ‘Keith can study on his own for an afternoon, why do you _care_ so much about him, what has that boy ever done for you.’”

“Uh, why couldn’t you just care because you’re not an asshole?”

Hunk starts apologizing for blurting that out, but the words turn to jello in his head at the weary shrug that Shiro gives him.

“That’s not how Maurice saw anything. And I mean…” Shiro lets go of Pidge so he can tug his fingers through his bangs, and he squeaks when she throws her arms around his chest instead. “The last morning, he asked the front desk to call a cab to take me down to work. But before he let me out of the room, he pushed me up against the wall with his hand around my throat and it was all, ‘Don’t forget what you promised me. Do what you will with this boy, but if you know what’s good for you, then _do not_ fall in love with Keith. Why bother. If he’s as strong as you’ve said he is, then he’ll never feel the same way for you. I’ve taken pity on you, but why would a _strong_ young man like Keith _ever_ love a simpering, pretty boy _burnout_. Do you think he can’t do infinitely _better_.’”

Something about the heaviness in Shiro’s voice suggests that he’s done sharing now, but while he’s mussing Pidge’s hair and looking at the top of her head, Hunk wrinkles his nose at Shiro. He only turns his gaze downward when Lance taps his calf. Maybe it’s projection or maybe wishful thinking, but Hunk’s pretty sure Lance’s face is twisted up with the same concerns and question that are nagging at Hunk right now: yeah, Shiro’s gone pale and he’s shrinking into the loveseat even while whispering at Pidge about how it’s okay, this is why he sees Ulaz right, one of many reasons, granted, but definitely a bigger one and Shiro’s working on it. Yeah, the connections aren’t all that hard to draw — but aside from trying to follow Ulaz’s, _“Let each other vocalize the things you feel in your own words”_ suggestion for the four of them, all of these huge, unchecked assumptions are part of what’s made things so convoluted for Keith and Shiro in the first place.

“Do…” Lance hisses, looking lost. “Should we _ask_ him? Or do we wait for him to say it on his own?”

Hunk shrugs and admits, “I don’t know, buddy? I wanna say the second one but he’s kinda looking like—”

“He’s kinda _sitting right here_ ,” Pidge points out, the roll of her eyes audible in her voice. “And the two of us can _kinda_ hear you—”

“Pidge, please. It’s fine, they’re okay.” Shiro sighs and shoots Hunk and Lance a contrite quirk of his lips.

“Man, we’re sorry, we just…” Lance trails off into a whiny, throaty little noise. “We didn’t know?”

“Nothing to apologize for,” Shiro says, and manages a genuine, if wan and smallish-looking, smile. “I mean, everything with Maurice was on my mind in the poetry incident? But Keith didn’t know that much, he only knew I’d spent a couple nights with him. And those nights were why I _really_ didn’t want to cancel our night out? I wanted to get _wrecked_ , like so wasted that I forgot my own name, never mind what had gone on with Maurice. But I wasn’t that intoxicated when Keith broke out his Christopher Marlowe, and I wanted it to be a joke or something? Like that’d somehow get me out of dealing with the flushed, warm, _soft_ feeling that crashed into me?”

Shiro takes a deep breath, but he doesn’t sigh. He only sits up straighter as he tells them, “He recited that, and… I _know_ how it feels when I’m crushing on somebody. I was high enough to completely miss Keith’s side of things, but not so high that I missed my own, but I didn’t want it to be _real_. It felt nice for about five seconds before I remembered that I had a _promise_ to keep and _freaked_ … Then we’re in Mark’s car and Keith’s all, ‘Why are we going out when you look so sick,’ and Mark and Trevor agree with him, so I made up the story about Haxus cutting off my pills because he’d done it before so that was plausible, and…”

Finally, the sigh comes up, but if anything, Shiro seems to rally himself by letting it out. “I’m an idiot, I didn’t even _think_ about why Keith might’ve… Or about what he was feeling, or anything on his side of—”

“In fairness?” Lance interjects. “You were _terrified_ because of some jumped up, choking-happy, uncle-quiznakking—”

“That doesn’t make it _right_.” There’s no anger in Shiro’s voice, not toward himself or Lance. But somehow, he doesn’t make Hunk feel better when he fumbles about picking up his copy of Keith’s essay, looks toward the sofa, and says, “I’m going back to reading now, before I lose my nerve.”

“One last thing?” Lance raises his hand and nearly hits Hunk in the face. “Keith’s next scene has Maurice taking you out for lunch after the two of them first meet each other? Am I right in guessing it went _terribly_ for you?”

“Yes, Lance. _Very_ ,” Shiro says flatly as Pidge lies down again. “But also? _Pink Flamingos_.”

“Can I ask a question that has nothing to do with Maurice?” she says, flopping her legs over the armrest again. When Shiro gives her the go-ahead, she blinks up at him and asks, “What happened to all your old bondage porn? Because I’ve _never_ seen it on your bookshelves, and I’ve pawed through all of them multiple times…”

“Yeah, I left it at Ryou’s place when I moved in here.” Yawning ever-so-slightly, Shiro scrubs at one of his eyes, then scratches at his cheek, right by his scar. “Last I heard, he still has it, in case I ever decide I want it back? But I wouldn’t mind if Slav went on a coffee-bender and turned it into some découpage garbage about the reality where my brother is his dom. Or set it all on fire for science. Whatever works.”

Hunk scrunches up his face. “This from the guy who’d rather be a Tribute in the Hunger Games than live in _Fahrenheit 451_ because the idea of people burning books upsets him _just that much_?”

“In fairness, I also think Bradbury’s overrated. My issues with Collins’s series and her writing notwithstanding, her work was _consistently_ engaging.” Shiro throws Hunk a wan but playful smirk, then wilts when Hunk doesn’t laugh for him.

“Look, I’m not _proud_ of feeling like that, Hunkules,” he says in a voice that’s failing to stay flat. “But any time I’ve tried to read those books since rehab, I get _messy_. I can’t tell if I’m getting turned on or triggered, but the stuff that’s heavier on fantasy usually _does_ trigger me. Except sometimes, I get hard and _that’s_ what triggers me, or I feel like maybe I’m getting triggered but whatever wires I have crossed about _fear_ act up and getting hot reminds me of Maurice…”

Groaning softly, Shiro takes a moment to rub at the bridge of his nose. If he notices the silence that’s invaded the living room, he apparently doesn’t let it get to him. He just shrugs and when he’s ready, tells the rest of them, “Either way? Reading those books now makes me want to drink, throw up, or both. Best case scenario, I take my Xanax and still end up crying all over Ryou, so? If Slav ever wants to use _Manacles of Desire_ and _All Chained Up In You_ as kindling for some nonsense science bonfire, then I’m all for it.”

“So, if I went over to Ryou’s,” Pidge says gently, blowing it on sounding innocent and forcing a smile like she desperately wants to lighten the mood. “And he showed me where those books are and then I borrowed them for a while—”

“Only if you can guarantee that your genetic brother won’t kill me. Matt wouldn’t last in prison and if I get a choice here, I’d rather be alive.” Shiro manages another, stronger smirk for Pidge and ruffles her hair. “Which you _can’t_ guarantee, so it’s probably safer not to risk it.”

“ _Ryou_ would let me have them—”

“I’m _reading_ now, Katie.”

For once, hearing Shiro use Pidge’s given name doesn’t get so much as a snicker out of Lance. That shouldn’t necessarily _mean_ anything, Hunk realizes, and it doesn’t _need_ to be a sign of things to come. Given how the conversation’s gone and everything Keith’s essay has dredged up so far, the fact that Lance isn’t so easily amused could be a sign that he’s getting _tired_. That’d make as much sense as portents of doom hiding in the way that Lance silently goes back to reading. Probably, it’d make _more_ sense for Lance to just be tired. But even as Hunk accepts that all his friends are reading now, instead of commentating, and turns back to his tablet, he doesn’t quite shake off the sense that _something_ is going to go terribly, _horribly_ wrong.

As he moves on to Keith’s version of an incident about Shiro and his Dad, Hunk wishes that he were sighing to himself about the essay and not the looming threat of _something awful_ falling on their heads. There’s plenty in the story that’s worth sighing over. But there’s a positive turn toward the end of it, too, and certain parts of it are nice, and more importantly, Hunk _should_ be focusing more on what he’s reading. If he needs to sigh, then shouldn’t it be over the essay and what it means for Shiro, and _not_ the fact that Hunk can’t calm his imagination down enough to accept that there probably isn’t anything coming for them. Nothing more terrible than the worst of the fam’s bad days, anyway, and nothing that they can’t handle if they work together.

Hunk makes a mental note to bring this up with Ulaz when they see each other next week, then puts it in his Reminders app as well. With friends like these, it’s too easy to get distracted and forget things that Ulaz needs to deal with. Even if they were collectively better at staying out of interesting misadventures, Hunk could get tripped up on his admitted trouble with taking his own problems as seriously as he takes others’.

Finishing up that scene with Shiro’s Dad, Hunk looks at the loveseat. Not that he’s disinterested — at first glance, the next scene is in Chicago and it seems to involve Keith’s GED scores — but Hunk wishes he could tell if it’s okay to ask something. The color’s slowly creeping back into Shiro’s cheeks, which helps Hunk believe that they’ll all get through this essay fine. But dropping a hand to Lance’s hair, trying to check in with him, earns Hunk a noncommittal, discontented noise. Hunk lets his next sigh come out instead of keeping it down, gets Lance a pillow he can use for now, and begs off to the kitchen to make some tea for everyone.

Once he has the kettle on the stove and the mugs lined up, Hunk leans against the counter with his tablet up. He lets his shoulders droop as he skims back over the scene with Shiro’s Dad, and reminds himself that Shiro’s working on his problems now. Whether or not it’s fair to say he’s in a better place with his mental health, he’s putting in the effort. He sees Ulaz every week. He goes to his group meetings, he takes his meds. He talks to Robin and that Mitch guy he likes from meetings who also knows Ryou, though Shiro’s apparently not allowed to explain how. He’s _really_ working on Ulaz’s suggestion about opening up about his history, more so since Keith came down to yell at them during practice, if anyone asks Hunk. Problems come up like they do with everyone, Hunk included, but Shiro’s _working on it_ , instead of pretending that he’s problem-free.

Besides, Hunk’s question might stray too close to dangerous territory. Asking if Shiro told the truth when Keith asked about his appetite, it _could_ be safe enough? But it could also come off as Hunk not trusting Shiro when he _does_ , and making Shiro feel doubted could all too easily enable the thoughts that make him close himself off from people.

“Oh my _God_ ,” Pidge splutters, loudly enough that Hunk frowns toward the living room. “Keith wasted such a perfect opportunity here… Takes cheap shot at you about _X-Men_ , but doesn’t come right out and say how much you want to let Ian McKellen nail you like a carpenter.”

“Could…” At least Shiro’s huff doesn’t sound annoyed or tired. “Could you not say it like that while your head is in my lap?”

Pidge hums in faux-consideration, then offers, “Let Ian McKellen fuck you harder than a horny cheerleader on prom night?”

That manages to make Shiro snort. With an indulgent chuckle, he says, “Such a little imp.”

“You know you love me.”

“Of course I do, Pidgeon.”

She snickers like she’s won something before telling him, “Yeah, I love you too, nerd.”

“You know, I _also_ love you both,” Lance chimes in, leaning too heavily on his, _“Please pay attention to me”_ tone for Hunk to believe it’s anything but intentional, Lance playing a certain version of himself because he thinks that it’ll make the fam laugh.

If Hunk’s right, then Lance gets what he wants: Pidge and Shiro both laugh before Shiro says, “I love you too,” and Pidge says, “I know, Flyboy,” with an audible smirk to accompany her _Star Wars_ reference. But then Lance has to go and ask:

“Okay, but seriously? How come he can reference _Casablanca_ but he’s never heard of _Back to the Future_?”

“Because I made him watch _Casablanca_ when we were living together?” Shiro says, and from the sound of it, most likely shrugs at Lance. “Look, I didn’t think _Back to the Future_ sounded like something he’d enjoy? And I don’t really like it either, I mean? So much of it is so completely skeevy—”

Which is where Lance cuts him off, groaning borderline unintelligibly about feeling _so betrayed_.

By the time Hunk rejoins the three of them and sets everyone’s mugs around the coffee-table, they’re all calmed down and reading quietly, and God, yes. Yes, this is exactly the sort of easy fam time that they need more of, as friends and as a band. Simply enjoying each other’s company and sharing something with each other without any bickering or pushing each other too hard, whether intentionally or not. Hunk doesn’t even feel like he’s lying when Shiro asks if he’s okay and he smiles.

“I was just reading over that kissing passage again,” he says, taking his seat back. As Lance snuggles into his lap again, Hunk shrugs. “I dunno, I know there’s more to read? But I really like the way Keith wrote it and gosh, I haven’t gotten kissed in _sooooo long_ …”

“I’m available and interested,” Lance pipes up. “If you really want to kiss someone so badly.”

Hunk giggles at this, but no one else does. The only thing that keeps him from blushing is the way he spots Pidge and Shiro watching the sofa as if they’re expecting something to happen. Pidge rolls onto her side and everything, so she can get a better view. Down in Hunk’s lap, Lance shifts around like he’s _uncomfortable_ , and whines so softly that Hunk can barely hear it. Maybe Lance didn’t even mean to do it. But clearly, he’s in a mood where he especially needs to feel like he’s loved and valued, so Hunk doesn’t think. He only cards his fingers through Lance’s hair and smiles at him.

“Real cute, buddy,” he says gently. “That’s why you’re our charmer, right?”

Pidge groans. Shiro sighs, and there’s a soft thump like he might’ve thwacked his head against the cushion. Lance wrinkles up his entire face with a soft, whimpering noise like he’s just been smacked and has no idea why. As he blinks up at Hunk, he isn’t tearing up, but his eyes have a wobbling look as if he could start crying right here, right now. For a long moment, his mouth flops open and shut, mouthing syllables that Lance never fully manages to spit out, much less string together into words. He whine again as he props himself up and looks toward the sofa. When Hunk looks over, Pidge is on her back again, intently staring at her tablet, while Shiro shrugs at Lance, expression clueless without being vacant, like he’s trying to say, _“What do you want me to do?”_ without using his words outright.

Wrinkling his nose, Hunk turns back to his own tablet. Whatever’s going on here, his chest twists with a heavy mix of guilt that he has no idea what it is when apparently he should, and frustration that Shiro, Pidge, and Lance are so obviously counting on Hunk to grok something that he, in turn, obviously doesn’t. It’s not like he can’t take it, if they just tell him what they think he’s missing. They can call Lance out when he’s showboating, tell Shiro that he’s talking about his feelings as if they’re the objective truth of any given situation, or let Pidge know when she’s been info-dumping long enough to need hydration. Why is it so hard for them to just open up their mouths and tell him, _“Hey, Hunk, here is what we’re talking about, sorry for assuming that you were on the same page as us, but since you **are** now, what do you think about it?”_

If his mug of tea were steeped enough, Hunk would chug the entire thing right now, just to take his mind off of this blatant unfairness.

At least Lance draws the attention back to him before Hunk can get too lost in stewing about this. He flaps his legs again and grouses loudly, “Oh my God! This is just… And Shiro, you are so… I can’t even, like? Holy crow, Shirito, you are _so. goddamn. in **LOVE**. with him_!”

“Yes, we’ve established that,” Shiro deadpans. “But what did we say about yelling?”

“Sorry, sorry, I just…” Lance sighs and yanks himself out of Hunk’s lap. If he’s sitting up, it must be important, so Hunk tries to catch up while Lance explains his outburst: “I _remember_ the song in this scene, okay? I thought I was gonna _die_ when you put it up on your old channel because it was gorgeous and I loved it and it hurt so good—”

“Okay, John Cougar Mellencamp,” Pidge says offhandedly.

“Ugh, can’t I be Carly Rae Jepsen instead? Why do I have to… No.” Lance shakes his head and huffs in resolution. “My point is? That was one of my _favorite_ songs from Shiro’s old channel, and I remember it — Hunkules, back me up here?”

“Yeah, uh… Lance had me make him an mp3 of that one,” Hunk offers without looking away from his tablet. He has to skim until he finds whatever scene they’re talking about. “I mean, we usually didn’t do that, ‘cause he didn’t want to shaft Shiro on views? And he _did_ watch it on Youtube more often than not? But it was our first semester at the college, his first boyfriend had just dumped him with a text message, and there were, uh, two weeks, I think? Where he mostly binge-listened to that song, like—”

“Yeah, because it was so _beautiful_ , and soft, and vulnerable, and _sad_ , I just…” With a damp, quiet sigh, Lance slumps backward against Hunk’s arm. “And I still had my big, dumb, fanboy crush on Shiro, so it was like? Okay, maybe Eric isn’t into me like I was into him, but oh yeah, _Shiro_ would know how to treat me right—”

“Gosh, Lance, I’m _flattered_ …” Leaning on the armrest, Shiro pauses for a moment and stares at the ceiling as he thinks this over. Fair enough, Hunk guesses. Lance’s old crush on him is always odd territory for them, and Shiro’s tone just now couldn’t decide between earnestness and levity, between honestly sharing Shiro’s feelings and making light of them because he didn’t feel like he could handle them. Which is all its own further tangled mess of weird, because Shiro could be making a joke without trying to distract anyone from anything.

“Yeah… Yeah, no, that’s true,” he says after a few long, silent moments, making sure to look right at Lance. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to… Well, I _did_ mean to cut you off, but I didn’t mean to dismiss your feelings? It does mean a lot to me that… I mean, I was _obviously_ deteriorating in those videos as they went on? And I always felt like a complete heel? Like maybe I’d only fallen for Keith because he was nicer than Maurice and I was the exact ungrateful brat he always said I was? Or like I was putting Keith in danger and dragging him down by not falling out of love with him like I should have, but I kept _not_ working on it because I was stupid and proud and didn’t really love him? Or I only loved him because he _didn’t_ love me and if he ever reciprocated, I’d push him away, which wasn’t even totally wrong, considering how things went? Or I felt like maybe I’d only fallen for him because I didn’t _want_ him to do better, because I was love-hungry and selfish and didn’t care if I ruined everything for him as long as he was with me…”

A shrug and an uneasy, restless noise. Shiro rubs his cheek against his palm. “I don’t know,” he says softly. “Yeah, in retrospect? A lot of it was Maurice, and a lot of it was the drugs, and a lot of it was my disorders being even more possessive of me than _he_ was? But it felt real back then and it still _feels_ like I _genuinely_ felt it on my own, so… y’know, it means a lot that you saw me like that and thought I’d treat you right.”

Lance gulps and rubs his back against Hunk’s shoulder until Hunk curls an arm around his waist. If anybody else were sitting like this, Hunk would probably agree with all of Pidge’s previous notions that his and Lance’s level of affection is different from how most non-romantic friends engage with each other. At the moment, though, this position is less physically awkward than trying to hug Lance around the shoulders when he wants to be facing Shiro. When Lance burrows further into his side, it doesn’t _mean_ anything about the two of them. He’s only doing it because the conversation is being sad, and he probably feels bad about getting Shiro into it, and he wants reassurance that somebody still loves them.

All of which makes Shiro arch an eyebrow at the sofa, but Hunk turns back to his tablet without a word. Lance and Shiro are having A Significant Moment, and they need to let themselves get it all out there. Hunk’s not going to interrupt that and throw things off, all to defend the fact that he and Lance are only friends.

“Okay, so…” Lance starts, and almost immediately knocks his head backward. At least he’s leaning on Hunk instead of someone with a harder chest. There’s cushioning to catch him and keep him safe until he picks himself back up and says, “Yeah, in your old videos from around then? You totally looked like you were going through some shit. But I didn’t _see you like that_ in the way I feel like you mean? ‘Cause I never saw some selfish jerk with a guitar. I saw someone sensitive, kinda troubled, but so creative and sweet, I felt like I could let you meet my Mom…”

He shrugs, rubbing against Hunk. “I thought you were a good guy and I wanted to be the boy you wrote that song for, okay? And I was _right_ about you being a good guy, even if you’re not the right good guy for me.”

“Thanks, Lance,” Shiro says with a tiny, genuine smile. “I… didn’t realize I needed to hear that.”

“Anytime, _bonito_.” That sounds so sweet, Lance must be giving Shiro a soft smile of his own.

But Lance’s nervous energy comes back with a vengeance as he straightens up and his shoulders go tense. “But yeah, I _wanted_ to be that, ‘Someone who doesn’t know how special he is’? And I _wanted_ to be your muse and the boy you were singing to, and I thought there was _no way_ anyone could make you sing like that and _not get it_? But the guy you wrote it for totally _didn’t_ get it, and he’s even _worse_ about, ‘When You’re Away’? Like, yeah, there’s more emotion in that song than concrete detail, but it’s not… Oh my god…”

Curling up his legs, Lance groans. “ _Please_ pretend you didn’t hear that?”

“The record store again?” Shiro says gently.

Nodding, Lance tries to go back to reading, but not before telling Shiro, “If this essay is any indication, Keith’s tearing himself up about hoping that you wrote that song for him, even though you _did_? But _he’s_ the one who needs to hear your artist’s statement, okay? Not me. Talk to _him_.”

Shiro agrees to that without a fuss, but it’s almost too offhanded. He _could_ just want to get back to reading, and Hunk doesn’t _want_ to question Shiro — but at the same time, he’s getting pale again and his expression while he’s looking at the pages is about as readable as a centuries-old receipt written in hieroglyphs by a shit-faced space alien, on half-disintegrated paper. Which Hunk should maybe just let go? Because _maybe_ Shiro’s just unsettled and trying not to be but no more than he does normally. Or maybe he’s even trying to deal with his feelings better but having a bit of trouble with that because he could use some space to himself but feels too guilty to just ask. Or maybe a lot of things that aren’t necessarily as awful as Hunk’s brain so badly wants for him to think.

Jeez, he’s gonna need to bring this up with Ulaz, too. Hunk can _feel_ it.

Several quiet minutes go by before Shiro interrupts to ask the whole gang about lunch. No one feels like going to pick it up, and as is so often the case, they decide on Chinese because all of them more or less agree on it. And it’s _good_ that Shiro is the one who brought it up, so Hunk wants to feel good about it? But he frowns when Shiro ambles to his room to get his wallet after calling in their order, and he can’t help arching an eyebrow when Shiro brings a journal back with him. As far as Lance and Pidge seem concerned, it’s no big deal that Shiro puts his little book on the armrest and scribbles instead of reading. She flops back down into his lap without asking what’s going on, while Lance only nestles closer to Hunk and whispers that his sigh is a sad one, yeah, but only because he let himself reread the scene he just had an outburst over.

They’ve probably got the right idea, Hunk _gets_ that. Except as he’s trying to read the next scene in Keith’s essay, he keeps glancing over at Shiro and catches himself trying to dissect any clues that he can find and figure this out for himself. Dimly, he’s aware that this isn’t exactly sticking to the advice that he gave Keith this morning — Hunk cringes at the page as his brain replays his own statement of, _“You could just **ask** me”_ — but in fairness, they’re different situations, mostly.

But Shiro’s waiting, the next time Hunk glances over at him, with his lips pursed and an eyebrow raised.

“I think I’m ahead of the rest of you,” he says. “And I wanted to write before reading Keith’s take on what’s coming up.”

“Okaaaaay?” Hunk likely can’t argue with that, but as he rests his chin atop Lance’s head, he’s thinking of ways that he could try. “But is it like, ‘You just have a lot of feelings and getting them out might clear your head and make you feel better’ writing? Or is it more, ‘You think you’re being a burden by talking to us so you’re retreating behind those walls instead of asking for help if you need it’ writing?”

“It’s writing like, ‘All of this is emotionally complicated and messy, and I have mixed feelings on talking about it or not? But whatever happens, I want to get my head around how I’m feeling and try to figure out…’” The noise that crawls out of Shiro’s throat is morose, but he shakes his head, _“No”_ about whether or not he wants everyone to clear out so he can call Robin, Mitch, or Ulaz. “I’d have to text Robin and Mitch right now, since they’re both at work? But I’m seeing them tomorrow anyway, and then Ulaz on Thursday…”

“But it’s okay if you need some space, man,” says Pidge, tugging on Shiro’s sleeve. “We don’t mind?”

“I’d rather have you around, actually. It’s helping keep me grounded.” Pausing, Shiro hums and jots something down in his journal. He’s still scribbling as he says, “I’m in a weird place about all of this? Because I know what I’m feeling, for once? But finding the words for it is…”

“Throwing you through a loop?” Lance suggests.

Pidge offers, “A giant pain in the ass but not in a good way?”

“I’m _having trouble with it_ ,” Shiro says, pointedly looking at Hunk and speaking as if he’s heard nothing. “Because it’s… I’ve spent _so long_ feeling uncertain about things with Keith, and wanting to believe he wanted me but telling myself he probably didn’t? Because then I still screwed up and I still hurt him? But I don’t know, it felt _easier_ when…”

“When you thought he didn’t love you back?” Hunk puts the idea out there without thinking it over too much, trying to sound as hopeful as humanly possible. “Because you have all those lyrics like, ‘I don’t deserve you’ this and, ‘Not good enough for you’ that? So if he didn’t want you and you screwed up back then, you could deal with that, but now it’s like… He _did_ love you, so you didn’t have to _really_ question one of your underlying basic assumptions, but now you _do_?”

Shiro scrunches up his whole face as if he might be sick. As he takes down another note, he grumbles, “Sometimes, Hunkules? I’d worry about you being psychic if I didn’t know better.”

“Why _can’t_ I be psychic?” Protesting like this might not be the best idea, but neither is letting the air in here stay so heavy. Hunk whines a bit as he says, “Seriously, why not?”

Unhelpfully, Shiro stays buried in his journal. The only thing he says is, “I dunno, ask Lance.”

Their buzzer goes off while Hunk is cringing. Before Shiro can react, Hunk pushes himself up, away from Lance, and grabs the bills off the coffee-table. If today’s gonna be, _“Everybody talks like Hunk’s supposed to know something and refuses to tell him what”_ Day, then screw it, Hunk can go meet the delivery guy. Shiro wants to write, Lance and Pidge are reading, and Hunk needs to move around before he gets short-term cabin fever.

Not that going down the stairs and taking them up again _helps_ much, when he gets back. As he comes in, Hunk can hear muffled voices, but as soon as the door slams behind him and Rover bolts in his direction, Hunk’s human friends all clam up. They trade shifty glances with each other as he sets the bags on the coffee-table and shoos Rover away because Chinese takeout is _not for dogs_. Much as he doesn’t want to make any accusations, but it sure _feels_ like they might’ve been talking about him. Taking his beef-and-barbecued-tea-sauce, Hunk doesn’t bother hiding the roll of his eyes. At this point, he can’t be imagining things. Something’s going on and his friends don’t want to let him in on whatever the probably amazing joke is, even though they still expect Hunk to know what’s up. If they’re gonna be like that, then Hunk’s allowed to roll his eyes.

He only tries not to sulk so much when Lance tucks himself into his side again and asks if he’s doing okay. Leaning his head back in a position that cannot possibly be comfortable, Lance blinks up at Hunk as if he can’t overstate how important Hunk’s answer to this question is, like there’s more hanging on whether or not Hunk’s okay than anyone can know. Without a sound, Hunk curls his arm around Lance’s waist again and kisses his forehead. He blushes bright pink, then swats at Hunk’s hand and tells him to stop hugging and eat up. Whatever, Hunk can’t stay mad at Lance. Especially not when he’s inexplicably being so dang cute.

“Here’s what I wanna know, though,” he says, nestling against Hunk like there’s any closer for them to get. “Where was Ryou even sneaking _off_ to? And _why_? I mean, he’s about as subtle as Zethrid’s fists, why even _bother_ trying to sneak anywhere?”

“In his defense, I wasn’t giving him too many options, at the time.” Shiro quirks his shoulders without quite shrugging and munches a forkful of sesame chicken. When he’s swallowed, he explains, “I waived doctor-patient confidentiality so my therapist could talk to Ryou about me. He had an appointment with her, but also knew I’d try to stop him if he told me about it.”

“But he clearly told you about it,” says Pidge.

“Yeah, _afterward_. When all I could do was get cranky and lie about what she’d told him until he called me on it.”

Pidge rolls her eyes. “That sounds like a _great_ life choice, on your part.”

Shiro mutters, “Duly noted.”

“If we’re asking questions?” Hunk pipes up, once he chokes down his current mouthful of lunch. “What the heck did you sing at karaoke night that upset Keith so much? That’s not like you?”

“It’s like how I was when I was _drunk_. And I mean, I knew he was upset at the time, but I didn’t think it had anything to do with my song choices?”

Still, Shiro has to think about his answer. At least he doesn’t resist _too_ much about eating his lunch. Sure, he picks a bit, pushing pieces of chicken around the container with his fork or toying with the broccoli instead of putting it in his mouth. But Shiro does that pretty much all the time, even when he’s feeling better than average. He’s not doing it too much more than usual and he keeps eating, so Hunk’s not ready to call him out on anything yet.

Finally, he admits, “My first song was, ‘Physical’? Y’know, by Olivia Newton-John?”

Hunk, Lance, and Pidge all groan in unison. Pidge smacks her head against the loveseat’s cushion while Lance lets his loll back so far, Hunk nudges him back up so he won’t strain his throat. Shiro’s cheeks flush scarlet as he tries to keep his shoulders up.

“ _Duly. Noted_ ,” he bites out. Which is a good enough response, to Hunk, but then Shiro tacks on, “Look, it was my birthday, I was drunk, I wanted to have a fun night and pretend that everything was fine even though it wasn’t. I thought that song was cute and flirty—”

“But it’s also _really obviously_ about nothing else but _sex_ ,” Lance points out, half-squawking.

“I didn’t even mean it for Keith _specifically_ , but he kept looking at me in this _way_ , so I winked at him, and just…?” Moaning helplessly, Shiro knocks his head on the back of the loveseat again. He takes a moment to collect himself, but doesn’t look away from the ceiling as he says, “Then Keith comes out there with Dolly’s, ‘Here You Come Again’ and spends the _entire three minutes_ of it staring at me, except for like? This one moment where I think he was looking at the bar? And yes, my second song was flirty and sexy, but it was _monogamous_ , so I thought, like…?”

Squeezing his knee, Pidge tries to smile. “What was it?”

“It was George Michael?”

“Biggest surprise in the universe,” Lance mutters fondly.

“I _like_ George Michael, okay?” Shiro goes quiet for another moment. When Pidge rubs at his leg again, he manages to tell them, “My second song that night was — and guys, please, please, _please_ don’t judge me, I _get_ that I was drunk and acting like an idiot? But…” He sighs, then he mumbles, “I picked, ‘I Want Your Sex.’”

The three of them groan again, while Shiro only looks at the ceiling like it owes him something.

“Dude, I love you?” Lance says. “But no _wonder_ Keith thought you were _only_ talking about sex.”

“Which sounds potentially extra-confusing,” Pidge adds on, “since you two were already having it?”

“Yes, I also got that note from his essay.”

Shiro nudges at Pidge’s shoulder, then lets her take his lunch. As she sets it on the coffee-table, he insists that he’s not completely done with it, yet, but he needs a few minutes to settle down again before he can keep eating.

“But just so we’re all clear?” he says. “I was _not_ trying to sing at him about sex exclusively.”

“We believe you, Shiro,” Hunk chimes in with a half-baked attempt at a smile. “But this is also making _me_ , personally, feel like _maaaaybe_ Drunk Shiro might’ve made even more questionable decisions than you’ve ever fully told us?”

“Oh, I definitely did. I don’t think I’ve told you guys _half_ of the stupidest things that I’ve done while drunk. That particular birthday just skyrocketed up the ranked list of relative stupidity, but…”

With an exhausted-sounding sigh, Shiro hugs himself and slouches, leaving his head in place against the cushion. He splays his legs out carelessly, knocking one foot into the sofa while the other slips underneath the table, down by Rover. The little guy’s blinking at this would be cuter if Shiro would _react_ , but he doesn’t even seem to notice when Rover licks his foot.

“Obviously, Keith didn’t get what I intended, and now, I understand _why_?” he says. “But the lyrics I zeroed in on were like, ‘I swear I won’t tease you, won’t tell you no lies, I don’t need no Bible, just look in my eyes’ and, ‘Sex is best when it’s one-on-one.’ I gender-flipped one lyric so it was, ‘I can’t take much more, _boy_ , I’m losing control.’ I think Ryou had an idea of what I wanted to do, since he tried to talk me out of it? But I didn’t listen to him, and _Keith_ just…”

Letting out a discernible, _“Ugh,”_ Shiro thwacks his head against the cushion. “I was looking _right at Keith_ on the line, ‘Don’t you know I love you ’til it hurts me, baby.’ I mean, I spent most of the song looking at him, but between the performer instincts and how scared I was, yes, I let my eyes wander? Except I made _sure_ to look at him for that line, and I thought it was _so good_ when he blushed? Like, ‘Yes, Keith knows what I mean, now _finally_ we’re getting somewhere’… Then, he ran out.”

There’s a soft sound by the floor. When Hunk looks down, Shiro’s batting at the couch with the foot that Rover isn’t huddling around protectively, the same way that he snuggles up with his raggedy stuffed bunny.

“I was _miserable_ the next morning because I thought Keith had been rejecting _me_.” Bristling, he hugs himself tighter. Although he isn’t _scowling_ , his expression has an edge to it like he might need Lance to hold him back, if offered the chance to reach back in time and smack his younger self. “Then the rest of it happened, and? I don’t know what he says in here, I only got up to the part where I took off my hoodie, _but_? I thought everything with Keith was hopeless ’til Ryou said my message might’ve gotten lost, but I still didn’t think about _Keith’s_ side or what _he_ was feeling, like…”

Shiro trails off into a deep sigh and goes quiet. Under the table, Rover starts licking at his toes again, but Shiro just shuts his eyes.

“I have another question?” Hunk says after a while, raising one hand, even though Shiro isn’t looking at anybody. There’s something shaky about the way Shiro quirks his shoulders, as if he doesn’t have the energy for full-on shrugging. But he mutters that it’s okay, so Hunk asks, “Did you _really_ mix Cuervo with cherry-flavored liquid Vicodin?”

“Yeah,” Shiro says flatly. “One time, I chugged six of those after I hadn’t eaten for, like, two days and—” He pauses while Hunk and Pidge loudly balk at this. From the way he grinds his teeth and tightens his grip on his elbow, Shiro would probably be _seething_ , if he didn’t look so tired and so _gray_. “Yes, this was stupid. Yes, I could have died. When I didn’t, I started laughing like Heath’s Joker until I realized that Keith looked like he was _scared **of** me_ instead of scared _for_ me. He asked me what was so funny, and I cracked when none of my answers made him feel better. Full-on, ugly crying _cracked_ —”

“Which is _completely_ understandable,” Lance snaps in, glaring at Pidge while he jabs a pointy elbow at Hunk’s belly. “And I, for one, call _Pink Flamingos_. Because this is starting to feel like we’re rubbing Shiro’s face in actions that he regrets enough already, and _judging_ him for what he did while he was in a _really_ bad place. And _I’m_ not gonna be a part of that.”

For all he says nothing, Shiro holds up a hand-heart for Lance again, and he nods when Lance sends one back.

This is when they should find something else to talk about, but it’s kinda difficult when Shiro looks the way he does and isn’t chiming in, for better or for worse. Even when Pidge hugs him around the chest, he stays quiet. Having some color in his cheeks is reassuring, but he kinda looks like he wants to jump off a bridge.

Much as Hunk doesn’t want his friends to feel like that, ever, and really hopes he’s wrong? He can understand where Shiro’s mood is coming from, if his guess about it is even in the vague vicinity of being right. So much about this situation with Keith still doesn’t entirely make sense, but if Hunk were in Shiro’s place, he imagines that he’d feel pretty crummy, too. Definitely more so, if two of his best friends sounded like they were judging him, like Hunk and Pidge just did.

Unfortunately, Shiro doesn’t get looking any better as Lance goes on about how his drunk logic _did_ make sense, like he was seeing the trees while Keith got fixated on the forest. When Pidge tries telling him that there’s still a way to fix things, he sits up a bit straighter, but only so he can subsequently hunch his shoulders. As they go over who’s gotten up to which points in Keith’s essay, Shiro manages to get down a bit more of his lunch, which makes Hunk smile — but he soon excuses himself to fix another pot of tea for everyone. He takes his journal and his copy of the essay with him to the kitchen, and flat-out says that he’s doing it so the three of them won’t try to listen in like maybe he’s making himself sick up on purpose.

“Which feels somewhat self-defeating, since now I’ve _definitely_ put doubts in your heads?” he says, collecting all the empty mugs. “But here’s where we are: I feel like I _want_ to do that. I am also trying to ground myself so that I _won’t_. Malingering around about reading the rest of Keith’s essay is making me feel ten times worse, so I know that I won’t like what’s coming next, but God, I want to get this _done with_ before I lose my resolve. Given everything, I won’t get upset if you listen in, but I would also take it as a kindness if you didn’t?”

“So,” Lance ventures, “you’re saying you just want to feel like you’ve got some _space_ for a couple minutes.”

Nodding, Shiro tells him, “Dead on, Sharpshooter.”

“Are you gonna finish reading in the kitchen?” Hunk’s not sure which option sounds better or worse.

“Probably,” Shiro says with a shrug. “But my Xanax is in there, if I need it.”

Pidge throws in, “Okay, but what if you need _help_?”

“I’ll call for one of you, or knock on the wall if I can’t do that.” With which, Shiro makes his hasty retreat.

Waiting for Shiro to come back isn’t _awkward_ , but it also isn’t comfortable. After a few moments, when he stops rattling around about getting the teapot ready, Rover whines and slinks off after him. Hunk’s not trying to listen in, this time, and he isn’t trying to spy — but fortunately, Shiro isn’t very quiet about trying to reassure Rover that he’s such a good boy and everybody loves him. When Hunk squints toward the kitchen, he can make out Rover curled up and Shiro’s legs stretched out before him on the floor. While Hunk generally _prefers_ for his friends — his _fam_ , who might as well belong to his blood family, thanks — to rely on each other, he’s not gonna argue with this development. Letting Rover comfort him is still _huge_ progress from Shiro flinching when people tried to hug him, like he did back when Matt and Pidge first introduced him to Hunk and Lance.

The flipside of Shiro being so forthcoming with his sounds for Rover and the living room going quiet, though, is that it’s pretty easy to hear everything else he’s doing. There’s a groan here, and a deep, shuddering sigh there. Something knocks hard into one of the cupboards and Hunk’s certain that it’s Shiro’s head, even before he sighs and tells Rover that it’s okay, he’s okay, everything is fine and he’s so, _so_ good, he is the _best_ dog. Eventually, there’s a choked noise, as if Shiro’s trying his damnedest not to cry — it’s the likeliest option, anyway; he has too many priors on that count for Hunk to name every single one of them — and when the kettle whistles, Hunk can’t make out any sounds like Shiro getting up to attend to it. Rover skitters around and whines at him, but as far as Hunk can tell, Shiro’s still on the floor, and almost definitely crying in near-perfect silence.

Out in the living room, Pidge curls her legs up on the loveseat and mumbles about really not liking a certain passage. When Lance tries to ask her which, she mentions _Trainspotting_ but otherwise doesn’t want to talk about it — “I mean, I don’t like it, but I also don’t like the idea of talking about him while he isn’t in the room again,” she explains — and that makes Lance writhe against Hunk’s side, trying to get closer, even though there really isn’t any room for this. He wilts as Hunk’s arm curls around his waist again, but leaning into Hunk’s chest like this means that, however Lance is feeling, he’s still okay enough to let people comfort him and to ask for it, with words or not. As he noses at Lance’s hair, Hunk sighs, but from the passage that he’s reading more than anything else. Like he’s sending that Hunk needs some consolation too, Lance shifts a bit, so that he’s leaning on Hunk in a position better-suited to nuzzling at him.

Neither of them is done reading yet, when Shiro finally brings three mugs of tea out. Pidge seems like she’s closer to finishing, and once she does, she seems to know exactly what’s on Hunk’s mind: she clings to Shiro again, wrapping her arms around his chest and burying her face in his side. He hugs her back and ruffles her hair, but everything he says about being okay now — “Or I’m doing _better_ than I was” — falls flat. Sure, he’s putting the effort into saying it, but Shiro can’t keep his voice even. His eyes are red, he hasn’t tried to clean up the damp trails running down his cheeks, and, every so often, he blinks out a few more tears. Which is probably on the better side of possible reactions to everything in the essay, but—

“Shiro?” Lance says, far more cautiously than usual. “Are you okay? Or…?”

“Not really, no,” Shiro admits, picking up his phone. “Working on it, but… I need a nap or there’s no way I’m gonna get through dinner with Keith and Allura. If I miss my alarm, can one of you please come wake me up?”

They all agree to that, of course, and as Rover follows Shiro to his room, Hunk holds Lance closer, trying to shake off the sense that they might have done more harm than good by digging into this essay.

*** * ***

Maybe it’s grasping at straws for something nice, but Hunk allows himself a smile when no one needs to prod Shiro about getting up when his alarm goes off. Sure, he’s hardly energetic about rejoining the waking world. Trudging out of his room with a whine, he scrubs at his eyes and yawns. He mumbles about how he’s taking Rover out and hopefully, it’ll wake him up better, so he can get some solo practice in before he has to get dressed up nice and pretty for his and Keith’s big double-date.

Which all works out the way that Shiro wants it to, as far as Hunk can tell. Sure, he and Lance trade tight-lipped, concerned glances, the fifth time they hear Shiro going over, “When You’re Away” on his acoustic guitar. But as Pidge points out via, _“So Shiro won’t overhear us and think we’re gossiping about this instead of being fairly concerned about him”_ group text, it does make sense that dwelling on Keith Stuff for most of the day makes Shiro more inclined to practice one of the many songs he’s written over the years with Keith in mind.

_“Especially that one,”_ one of her messages says. _“It’s one of the more recent ones, and I think he loves it most.”_

Hunk can’t argue with that point, and more importantly, practicing that song _does_ seem to perk Shiro up. He’s not exactly _smiling_ , when he sees Pidge and Rover off so she can go upstairs and work on something for a class she has tomorrow, but as he picks out what he wants to wear, Shiro’s brighter than Hunk would’ve expected. He hums his way through trying a few outfits on and running them by Hunk and Lance for second opinions on how they look.

When Hunk listens in enough, the songs that Shiro picks out include, “Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go” (“Yeah, because he wouldn’t hum that _normally_?” Lance points out, for all he sounds uncertain of this, himself) and, “I Wanna Dance With Somebody Who Loves Me” (Lance sighs at Hunk’s attempt to question this and tells him, “Maybe we should worry, but also, maybe we shouldn’t? I can’t tell, but he sure _sounds_ okay to me, and I really don’t wanna look this one in the mouth. Maybe he took a half-dose of his meds before? So they’re working, but he’s not totally knocked out”).

The suit that Shiro settles on is simple and understated, but definitely nice. About the only point that anyone could knock him on is that he seems uncomfortable, but considering what he prefers wearing, that’s not _too_ terribly noteworthy. He’s still in apparently in good spirits when he asks for some assistance with his hair, and Hunk can’t help smiling when Shiro agrees to let him put little braids in his fringe before he ties everything back into a ponytail.

While Hunk is brushing out his locks, though, Shiro tells them, “I’m gonna fix things with Keith.”

That gets a squawk out of Lance and for a moment, Hunk stops brushing. They’re in Lance’s room because he has better lighting, and he’s chilling in his beanbag chair while Hunk and Shiro take the bed. Without a sound, Hunk casts a glance over at Lance’s position by the wall, trying to ask which of them should pipe up and prod Shiro about whatever he thinks he’s on about. Lance shrugs, but quirks his eyebrows and sighs in a way that says he volunteers.

“Shirito, I…” he starts, trailing off into a soft groan before he manages, “Like, did we read the same essay, yes or no? Because I’m pretty sure that Keith’s problems are, one, _not_ your fault and two, not going to get all magically fixed up by getting a boyfriend. Not even one who’s tall, dark, handsome, and totally in love with him.”

Even seeing Shiro’s set jaw and determined squint in profile only, Hunk gulps. Lance’s eyes go wide, but he huffs back anyway.

“I know you love him and that counts for a lot,” he insists. “I’m _not_ saying that I don’t want you and Keith to be together. He’s not that bad and I respect your choice, here. Apparently, you both want each other and I think that you _can_ work things out? I’m also not trying to give you a free pass or say that you haven’t screwed up with him before because, uh, _yeah_? Based on everything I learned today, you definitely have?”

“Not that we doubt your commitment or anything either,” Hunk adds as he starts weaving together the sections of Shiro’s white forelock. “Because we _know_ you really love him, and we _know_ that you wouldn’t do this halfway…”

“But I mean _exactly_ what I said.” Folding his arms over his chest, Lance is _trying_ not to look like he’s petulant or sulking, and Hunk doesn’t want to point out that he isn’t quite succeeding. “Whatever you messed up with Keith before, based on what I took from that essay? His problems go deeper than being peeved about how things went with his One Who Got Away. And those problems _are not **your**_ responsibility to fix. He needs more help than you or any significant other can give him, more help than they can be _expected_ to—”

“No, guys, I _realize_ that,” Shiro says, gripping onto Lance’s sheets with one hand. “I’m not talking about trying to be Keith’s human Prozac. That’s part of why Lotor and I went so wrong, and I’m not going to do that to Keith. I don’t want to do that to anybody, but _especially_ not him…”

His fingers tremble as he tightens his hold on the sheets. Although he’s usually good about holding still while someone fixes his hair (and especially when that someone is Hunk with his OCD), Shiro hunches in on himself as if he’s shouldering more than he can carry and ducks his chin. Hunk’s gonna need to start the whole braid over again, as soon as Shiro’s ready to let him. But for right now, while Shiro’s looking like he could be sick all over Lance’s floor? Hunk’s fine to put aside doing Shiro’s braids and rub his back the way he likes instead and hoping that it helps keep Shiro grounded, at the very least.

Following a few deep breaths that don’t do much to steady him, Shiro tells them, “Look, I agree with you about Keith needing help. But there are amends that I need to make to him, even more than I already knew about. And yes, Robin and Mitch always tell me that the Twelve Steps are _legitimately_ more like guidelines than hard and fast rules, because not all of them work for every person’s situation? But I can’t just…”

Sighing way too heavily for Hunk’s liking, Shiro lets go of Lance’s sheets and smooths out the wrinkles that he leaves behind. “A lot of things about Keith’s essay got to me?” he says, softly. “But the worst part was him guessing I’d been stringing him along to keep him from noticing what I was _doing_ to myself, how badly off—”

“Oh, come _on_ ,” Hunk huffs, tucking Shiro’s forelock behind his ear even though this means he’ll need to brush it out again in addition to starting the braid over. “Man, we all _know_ that’s baloney. And Keith probably knows it, too, right? Like, he’s hurting, but he can’t really _mean_ that about you. It’s coming out of pain and loneliness and—”

“But he was _right_ , though.”

That, finally, makes Shiro look up from the floor, for all his shoulders sag with shame as he turns toward Hunk. “I’m not saying I did it on purpose. I never thought about it like that, not consciously? And I _meant it_ , every time I told him anything about him being special? But I meant it every time I told him that I had things handled with Maurice, and every time I told him I was trying to cut back on how much I was using or said I _could_ quit drinking but I didn’t _want_ to, like that’s not one of the single biggest alcoholic cliches, and I…”

Shaking his head, Shiro sighs again. He clearly has to force himself to look Hunk in the eye as he says, “The fact that I wasn’t distracting Keith on purpose doesn’t mean that I didn’t do it. And it doesn’t mean that his hurt over it isn’t valid.”

“Not that I’m trying to invalidate his feelings _or_ yours, _bonito_?” Lance chimes in gingerly. “But I’m not entirely following?”

“Right now, I don’t expect you to.” Shiro says it gently, then faces Lance.

Whatever expression he’s wearing, it makes Lance slip into a face Hunk never likes seeing on him: the tight, fragile, frowning one where he desperately wants to help someone he loves and doesn’t want to accept that maybe, right this second, there isn’t much that he can do.

“Right now, I’m still working through a lot of this myself,” Shiro admits. “And I want help with it, but… It’s getting into, ‘Addict stuff’ territory. Which you guys do your best about, and you _do_ help with it? But I can’t expect you to get it in the same way that another addict can. I hope you _never_ understand it in that way. As far as this situation goes, I want to talk to you guys, but I feel like there’s only so far we can _get_. Ryou knows me better than probably anybody and there’s only so far I think that I could get with him right now, too…”

Huffing, Shiro nudges the white fringe out from behind his ear. “I’m gonna talk to Mitch and Robin about it all tomorrow, okay? Maybe the whole group, if there’s occasion for it or it comes up? But definitely Mitch and Robin.”

Lance considers that for a moment, then nods. “As long as you talk to _somebody_ instead of bottling it up.”

“And as long as you’re serious about not trying to be Keith’s therapist,” Hunk says as Shiro settles back into place. As he delicately undoes the work on his braid and picks up the brush again, Hunk adds, “I’m all in favor of you and Keith working things out and being together, if you both want that? But be his _boyfriend_. You can help him, sure, but only so much, and it’s not fair on _either_ of you if you try to do too much, like… And definitely don’t rush anything, ‘cause then you might not pay attention to what _you’re_ doing, and you could try to therapize him, or like? You know what I mean, right?”

“Yeah, I follow, Hunkules.” Shiro smiles a bit, but doesn’t turn his head and risk messing up Hunk’s work on his braid again. “Right now, I just… Obviously, I _care_ if Keith and I get together because I want to be with him? I want to make amends for hurting him, and whatever he ultimately does with it, I want him to _know_ how much I love him…” As Hunk starts plaiting his hair again, Shiro’s profile looks softer and more determined than it has all day. “More than anything else, I just want Keith to be okay. And yes, I would like it if his version of, ‘Okay’ included me as his significant other? If it _doesn’t_ , though? Then it’s going to hurt. But…”

A deep breath. Another sigh, but it’s a steely one — so much so that it makes Lance shiver.

“I’d rather help Keith than be his boyfriend,” Shiro says and sounds more certain of this than Hunk’s heard him sound about anything in _months_. “I want him to be healthier more than I want for him to be with me.”

*** * ***

Although they trust Shiro for the most part, neither Hunk nor Lance is particularly keen on it when he asks if they wouldn’t mind clearing out of the apartment for a while tonight. They like the idea even less when he clarifies that, yes, he intends to bring Keith home after dinner and he’d appreciate having a little bit of space. All three of them have made that kind of request, or heard someone else ask for similar, enough times to know what it usually means, so Hunk’s pretty sure that Shiro can’t begrudge them any suspicion or concern right now — especially not given everything they’ve learned today and how upset Shiro got about it.

Besides, as Lance puts it, sleeping with Keith tonight would definitely count as, _“moving things a bit too fast.”_

“The only way we’re sleeping together tonight is literally,” Shiro promises. “I don’t even know if he’ll take me up on this, much less stay over, but… I want to try and talk some things out with him. I don’t know how much I’ll be up for or how much _he’ll_ be up for, but at least I want to tell him that I read his essay, so it doesn’t fester. I’ll leave you two and Pidge out of it, but… It’d be a lot easier to have this talk if Keith and I could be alone?”

That much, they can’t argue with. Hunk, in particular, has spent today dropping enough eaves, peering in on enough scenes to which he was not invited, and opening enough documents that he probably wasn’t meant to see on computers that do not belong to him. He’s probably good for the next six months, at least, and he’s given Shiro sufficient reason to want some space for whatever talk he wants to have with Keith. To put his roommates’ minds at ease, Shiro swears to keep them posted so they’ll know how things are shaking out and especially if they should or shouldn’t expect to have a guest milling around the apartment in the morning. Hunk agrees to that right out; Lance agrees with only a brief detour by reminding Shiro that, no matter how much he loves Keith, _he deserves to take care of himself, too._

Not that Hunk thinks Lance is any kind of wrong about that, because he isn’t. But their dinner out at Hunk’s favorite sushi place would no doubt be less tense and more enjoyable if Lance would let it go a little. Jeez, Hunk’s concerned about Shiro’s welfare, too — and Keith’s, for all he doesn’t feel like bringing that up with Lance right now — but Lance spends dinner tightly-wound and wrapped up in his own thoughts. More than once, he spaces out, hunching over the table and playing with his chopsticks like he’s thinking about something that he feels strongly about but can’t entirely put words on.

When Hunk toes at his ankle and tells him to lighten up and believe in Shiro, Lance only slouches further and grumbles unintelligibly. When Hunk prods him about what he said, Lance sighs and tells him, “God, Shiro was being way too nice in saying that you’re not psychic…”

Which Hunk can’t interpret for the life of him, so okay fine, he can admit that he deserves these, _“you’re not psychic”_ cracks.

Regardless of the mood, they dawdle their way through dinner, trying to make sure that Keith and Shiro have all the time they need. By the time they’re done, Shiro’s only texted to say that Keith _is_ coming home with him — but that was several minutes before they fess up on the bill, so Lance suggests they grab dessert somewhere. It’s Keith’s birthday, and they’re allowed to celebrate too, or so Lance says. Besides, what’s the point of living near an ice cream parlor that stays open in fall and winter if they don’t take advantage of that? Which makes sense to Hunk on a logical level, but they still haven’t heard any more from Shiro after walking there and ordering up Hunk’s double-scoop waffle cone and Lance’s oversized brownie sundae with all the fixings.

“Shirito tricked me into _actually jogging_ today,” he explains around a mouthful of it, jabbing his spoon at thin air as if this somehow helps him make his point. “My entire body is _offended_ that he would do a thing like that, so I deserve to _extra_ treat myself.”

“You don’t know how to be anything _but_ extra,” Hunk points out. “But anyone who can’t put up with that doesn’t deserve you, so…”

He chuckles, expecting that Lance will soon laugh laugh with him, or possibly snap back with a witty rejoinder. Even making a cringe-worthy pun or turning what Hunk told him into a crummy pick-up line would be infinitely preferable to hunching over the table again and sulking through the rest of his ice cream. Worse, Lance still hasn’t gotten back to his usual, sparkling self when they’re on the other side of dessert, have yet to get any further texts from Shiro, and decide to go wander around Rover’s favorite park, since it’s right around here and apparently, they’ve got time to kill.

They’re lurking around the fountain, not walking anywhere in particular, when Lance sighs like he’s got something on his mind. When Hunk tries to needle him about what’s wrong, all Lance gives him is a shrug. With a deep breath and his eyes shut, Lance flips in a quarter. Hunk tries asking what he wished for, but Lance shakes his head and hugs himself around the middle. Hunching a bit, he insists that he can’t share his own wish, not unless he wants to jinx it.

But before Hunk can think about that for too long, much less come up with how he wants to respond, Lance faces him.

“What d’you think about this whole thing?” he says as if this makes any sense at all. “The thing with Keith and Shiro, I mean. And not about them being together, if that’s how things work out, but like? Everything that happened with them before and how it’s all played out?”

“I’m…?” Hunk’s shoulders droop. “I’m not sure what you’re asking?”

“Just, in everything we learned today, and how the two of them keep talking about it…” Lance inches toward Hunk, but for some reason, he can’t make himself look Hunk in the eye. “I mean, their whole problem — well, maybe not their _whole_ problem, they’ve got like a metric quiznakking _fuck-ton_ of problems between the two of them? But one of the big ones is how they _assume_ things about what’s going on and how the other one feels without reality-checking anything, right? Or is that just me?”

“ _Noooo_? I don’t think so?” With the subtext that’s hanging around so thick that they could cut it open, Hunk’s not quite certain what he’s agreeing to. But he can tell that it’s important to Lance and Hunk _does_ agree with what all’s being said aloud. Watching his buddy closely, he starts rattling off his feelings as they come to him: “I mean, they can make it work, but getting them on the same page would help a lot? Because they both have _so much_ that’s going on inside them that they aren’t sharing as openly as they should? And it’s like, ‘Oh my _God_ , you two _love each other_ so much it _**hurts**_ , now suck it up, be brave, and put how you feel out there already before you miss out on something you’ll’—”

Wherever that thought was going, Lance cuts it off, whining into a desperate kiss.

Hunk blinks at Lance’s eyes, clamped shut like nothing could open them up again. He kisses back, but there’s no thought to it. There’s no thought to anything, just a vacant space where Hunk remembers having a brain not that long ago, and enough awareness that he can tell his mind’s gone blank. As Lance moans against his mouth, Hunk can’t feel if his heart’s still beating. He can’t feel his heart at all. Only a tightness in his chest like he’s going to pass out if he doesn’t breathe soon, but that might also happen if Lance stops kissing him, but what are they even doing, why _is_ Lance kissing him, not just on the forehead or the cheek but full-throttle and on the mouth, what’s going on, why is this _happening_ —

Lance yanks back abruptly, gasping for breath. But as he settles on his own two feet, he doesn’t take his eyes off Hunk.

“Hunk, I…” He starts before he’s fully ready for it and quickly falls back into gasping. Getting his arm rubbed seems to reassure him somewhat, though it also makes a cherry blush bloom all over his poor cheeks. Once he’s gotten it all back together, Lance huffs. “Hunk, I _love_ you. So much. Man, I am _in love_ with you. And I’ve been trying to tell you, I didn’t think I was being _subtle_ but you kept not _getting_ it? So I felt like maybe, I don’t know? Maybe I flirt too much, so you _didn’t_ get it because it wasn’t different enough, and just…”

The sigh that comes out next is so damp, it almost sounds like a sob. “It’s fine if you don’t love me back,” he says. “It’ll hurt, yeah, but whatever happens, I _do **not**_ want for us to end up like _Keith and Shiro Two: Electric Boogaloo_? So, like you said, just… Putting it all out there, right? And I can deal with it to save the friendship, if you don’t love me back, but I just wanna know for sure? How you feel about _me_? And _us_? And _**this**_?”

“I… feel like I really didn’t see this coming? At all?” Dragging a hand back through his hair, Hunk slouches.

He wants to keep looking at Lance, but the frown twisting up Lance’s face makes Hunk’s lungs wriggle guiltily.

“Can… Can I have some _time_?” Hunk manages, with a sigh. He can’t make himself stand up straight, but he forces himself to meet Lance’s eye as he says, “I just… I want to say, ‘yes’? Because it’s what _you_ want? But I don’t know how I feel or what I want, aside from how I don’t want to hurt you, so…?” He takes one of Lance’s hands and squeezes it. “If I promise to keep you posted, can I _please_ just have some time?”

“That’s actually better than I expected, buddy,” Lance admits, flushing pink again. His smile wobbles like it’s drunk or possibly concussed, but it’s too earnest for Hunk to question it. “How much time do you think you need?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It occurs to me that I don’t think I’ve updated the running tally of canon characters I’ve referenced in a while, and I was going to be coy about this one, but now I don’t feel like it, so: Mitch is Iverson. Iverson is Mitch. Period. Yup.
> 
> Anyway, I picked his given name for the show writer that his canon counterpart was probably named for. He knows Ryou in an academic/professional capacity, and he knows Shiro primarily through A.A. (though it also wasn’t hard for Iverson to connect the dots between, “New kid at meetings, who looks like a thinner Ryou and mentions having a twin brother,” “Twin brother Takashi, who Ryou always speaks highly and fondly of, even when he’s concerned or mentioning things like rehab,” and, “Ryou’s family name is _Shirogane_ ”).
> 
> Like, I imagine that the twins thought they were gonna have a really neat time and introduce each other to this cool older guy who they admire and respect, then Ryou set up a lunch or something, and Shiro was like, “Wait, Ryou, how do you know Mitch,” to which Ryou was like, “Uh, why are _you_ calling Dr. Iverson, ‘ _Mitch_ ,’” and poor Iverson just facepalmed and sighed like, “…Yeah, no, let’s skip over the awkward introductions and talk about _anything else_.”


	12. Takashi Shirogane and the Pent-Up Answers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh yay, it’s another chapter getting split up about halfway through its planned action.
> 
> This one, however, got split up less for issues of length and more because I looked at the conversation between Shiro and Keith, then looked at everything else on the original chapter outline, and I went, “Okay, yeah, trying to shove all of this into one chapter would probably end up distracting from everything and it would probably feel weird, even if it’s not whipsawing from the Keith And Shiro Talk About Stuff scene right to the scenes with Lance, Iverson, Ryou, and Slav, or Shiro-and-Allura Scene #2. Let’s just give Keith’s birthday and some of its important conversations their own chapter, then do the rest of it for chapter 13.”
> 
> So, Slav and his refusal to understand why his best friend’s brother doesn’t want to be his friend get to happen next time. For now, the major source of frustration is the same as ever: Keith and Shiro being themselves and trying to make better choices, mostly, but…… Well, they sure are trying. Effort has been made, and as usual, I recommend letting yourself yell at them if you need to, then aftercare in the form of cookies or whatever you like doing to treat yourself. ♡

Although Shiro had never heard of the restaurant Allura suggested before last week, he finds his way to Elan quite easily. It’s in a part of town that he primarily associates with Ulaz, on one hand, since his office is a few blocks away from the restaurant, and Lotor, on the other, whose place was right along the walking route that Google Maps tried to suggest.

Whether it’s rational or not, Shiro took the extra few minutes to find a different path, even at the risk of being a bit late to dinner. He’s had enough upsets today without the risk of getting dragged into something because Lotor was home and wanted attention, or Acxa needed someone other than Narti to help her rein in Lotor and Zethrid before they enabled each other in yet another bad idea, or Ezor happened to be getting the mail and took the chance to yell something playful and deliberately vulgar at Shiro as he wandered by their porch. Besides, Lotor was then. Keith is now. Shiro has to focus on that, he _has_ to. Distractions won’t help.

Inside, Elan insists upon its coziness. They have the lights down low, but not low enough that you can’t see when you aren’t nestled up right next to the candles sitting in little glass cages at the center of every table. The way that the tables are arranged, with space between them but not too much, Shiro can’t tell from the lobby if this place is small and trying to act like it has more room than there really is, or if it’s bigger and trying to fill up as much of itself as possible so that no one notices or feels too alone. Right off from the hostess’s stand, the coat check sits in a little grotto that’s carved out in a curve that wants to lure you in.

Keith’s waiting there by the currently unoccupied desk when Shiro shows up, with his backpack on the floor and resting against his leg. He frowns so intently at the list of prices that he doesn’t react to Shiro clearing his throat. Maybe Shiro just does it too softly for Keith to hear him. Either way, Keith tenses when Shiro’s hand drops onto his shoulder, then sighs and softens when he sees who’s there. He smiles up at Shiro like he can’t believe that he actually showed up, and it occurs to Shiro to reassure him with a kiss, if Keith wants that. Before he can ask, though, he’s blinking at Keith’s hand coming toward him. Arching an eyebrow at Keith’s wrist in his peripheral vision. Grinning at the feeling of Keith’s fingers trailing over one of Shiro’s braids, and trying to ignore the warm feeling of relief blossoming in his chest because he knows it isn’t tied to Keith and would ultimately distract him more than not.

“Your hair looks nice,” Keith tells him, still rubbing at the braid. “Everyone’s gonna think you’re here with Allura, you’re so together.”

In all likelihood, Keith doesn’t intend for that to feel like a trap or a trick question. Not that he’s never done anything like that or never would? But it’s not his style to do it on purpose, and Keith usually wouldn’t do it when he’s smiling like this, whether it’s a small smile like right now or not. Even so, he has a tacit point, of sorts. For all he doesn’t look _bad_ , Keith is swimming in a jacket that’s maybe a size-and-a-half too big for him while his slacks hang around his legs. The black button-up is the only part of his outfit that fits him right. Shiro can only imagine what any of this could be doing to his image of himself as some scrappy but undeserving street rat.

Either way, he can’t just _let_ what Keith said stand without correcting him. So, Shiro huffs gently and tucks a piece of Keith’s hair back behind his ear.

“Let them think whatever they want,” he says, placing his hand behind Keith’s neck and leaning down to nudge their foreheads together. “I know who I’m here with.”

Leaving that in the air between them, Shiro lingers right there in Keith’s face while Keith goes pink and nudges against him back. Taking a deep breath, Shiro hopes that Keith takes him up on the silent offer of a kiss to steady his nerves. But right as it looks like Keith might be leaning up to take it, the guy manning the coat check comes back and Keith jerks away. Inconvenient timing, but it’s no one’s fault and at least Keith lets Shiro pay the few dollars to check his backpack for the next little while. He stays close to Shiro’s side as he leads them back toward the table where Shay’s waiting for them with a dark-skinned girl with long, toned arms, high, fine cheekbones, and her silver hair stacked up in an intricate-looking arrangement of a bun and a braid. Her modest dress is a light, sugary shade of pink, with gauzy, steel gray sleeves that billow down to pink buttoned-up cuffs.

Allura — that much is clear before Keith introduces her and Shiro properly. He feels like it would be even without logic or such a limited guest list for the evening dictating that she must be Allura. Maybe she isn’t a literal princess, but her posture has an edge like she spent her childhood in etiquette lessons and there’s a regal air about everything from that to how she places a stray lock of hair behind her ear. She smiles warmly as she gives Shiro a firm handshake, and she laughs like a wind rustling through wildflowers.

Moreover, they settle into an easy, comfortable rapport while picking out meals and debating over appetizers with Keith and Shay. It stays that way when Keith sulks over Allura telling the waitress that it’s her and Keith’s birthday, and better yet, he doesn’t stay annoyed. A squeeze of his shoulder and a rub on his back, and Keith moves on from the question of why they really needed to make the occasion for this double-date known. He even seems to get that he’s being somewhat ridiculous in objecting right now, when the whole reason for coming out tonight was celebrating. Granted, Keith doesn’t say that so much as he redirects them, griping about how he spent his free time today working on the application for his advisor’s TA spot and he doesn’t feel like he really understands what Kolivan’s going for with some of the questions or why they’re even remotely necessary.

“I mean, I get asking about my employment history and everything,” he says, slouching back and splaying his legs under the table. One of them knocks into Shiro’s, but Keith doesn’t seem to notice. “But asking shit like, ‘What did you learn from the worst job that you ever had?’ and, ‘What’s the strangest thing you’ve ever done for money? The worst?’ I just… Why does this even matter, Kolivan? _Jesus_ …”

That round of complaining aside, though, Keith is more or less okay. He seems it, anyway. He snickers when Allura jokes that perhaps Kolivan wants to be certain that he won’t become someone’s new source of work-related horror stories, so he won’t end up cast as a villain in someone else’s memoirs or autoethnographic reflections on the myriad hijinks of academia. He flushes pink when Shiro squeezes his knee, then scoots his chair closer. When the appetizers show up, the plate of calamari has, _“Happy Birthday”_ written on it in the bright orange house sauce, and Shay and Allura spend a moment getting lost in a tender, affectionate kiss.

While they’re otherwise preoccupied, Keith glances up at Shiro and drawls, “Y’know, it’s my birthday, too.”

He keeps up the faux-angelic not-quite-smile until he gets a snort out of Shiro, until Shiro cups his hand around Keith’s jaw and leans down to kiss him. While Shiro’s content to hang onto it without pushing things any further, Keith slips him a little bit of tongue, not enough to be indecent for the setting but just enough to let Shiro taste what they could be doing instead. After they separate to breathe, Keith hangs around in Shiro’s personal space, the same way that Shiro did to him before, and before pulling away to sit in his own seat like normal, Keith steals a smaller kiss with a light nip on Shiro’s lower lip. When Shiro snakes his arm around Keith’s shoulders, Keith leans into the embrace until dinner gets there. When it does, he’s slow to pull himself away and at that, he mostly does so because Shiro points out that they should eat.

Not that Shiro _means_ to focus overly on Keith, not when Shay is kind and things are going quite well with Allura. But he probably does get a bit wrapped up in tunnel-vision. Or at least, he gets the distinct impression that he might’ve done when Keith and Shay beg off to the restrooms after the dessert orders get put in, and Allura rounds on him with an indecipherable glimmer in her eyes, a playful twist to her smile that Shiro thinks he likes but can’t quite make heads or tails of.

“I’m sorry?” he says, while she’s considering _something_. “I mean, I wanted to bring you a birthday present, but I didn’t do a good enough job of asking Keith what you might like? But one of my roommates _did_ agree to make you cupcakes, if you might like those? And I could meet you to deliver them on Wednesday, or you could come to the bookstore where I work…?”

“If this is the same roommate who made the ones Keith had with him today? Then I would like that very much, and we can sort out the details later.” Allura’s voice _glistens_ as she smiles at him. Shiro didn’t even know someone could make their voice do that, short of singing with natural vibrato. “But you don’t _need_ to do anything particular, for all I do appreciate the thought.”

“Well, I _want_ to.” Shrugging, Shiro tries to smile for her, but his mouth feels tight and his lips don’t want to move quite right. It’s like his entire face _knows_ that he’s wasting time with things that don’t matter nearly as much as what he needs to say.

With a deep breath, he inches his chair closer to the table and leans on his elbows, trying to get as close as he can to both Allura and her eye-line. No doubt Mom would tell him to show Allura the proper respect that she deserves, just like she and Dad taught him, and to sit up straight, the way she knows that he can. _“And please don’t give me one of your, ‘But, Mom, you know I can’t do anything **straight** ’ jokes, Kashi. They’re very cute, but not appropriate right now and you know that isn’t what I meant,”_ she’d probably tell him, tapping at his shoulder until he listened and corrected his posture. For now, though, Shiro clears his head with a deep breath, curling his hands around his still-cool, glass of Diet Coke. He sighs and brushes his thumbs up and down the condensation. He’ll have to respect Allura in ways that have nothing to do with how he’s sitting.

“I wanted to get you something,” Shiro tells her, “because… Well, yeah, it’s your birthday? But also as a, ‘Thank you’?”

Allura tilts her head and pouts curiously. “A, ‘Thank you’ for… which thing, exactly?”

“For being there for Keith?”

This does not seem to put Allura’s mind at ease or answer any of the (likely very fair) questions that she’s clearly sitting on. Shiro shrugs while he’s trying to find the right words and the right direction to take this in. But while he’s pondering, he does her the courtesy of not trying to fake another smile. Allura’s smart, she’s grown up with a Father who’s in politics apparently, and she’s dealt with Keith for a few years by now; Shiro doesn’t doubt that she can see through a fake smile all too easily. Trying to give her one is probably very high up the list of things that Mom would consider incredibly disrespectful of a young lady like Allura, never mind her being best friend to Shiro’s, _“someone special and also somewhat complicated.”_

“Look, I… I don’t know how much Keith’s told you about our history together?”

“Not terribly much,” Allura admits, folding her hands in front of her. “He knew you in Texas and lived with you in Chicago… You were friends, you drew Red for him, and you cared very much for each other, but it was hardly the best of times for either of you and both of you were somewhat _troubled_ …” She says that with the gentleness and concern of someone who’s trying not to knock over a Faberge egg.

Then, with a pensive huff, she adds, “He hasn’t said as much explicitly, but it doesn’t take Sherlock Holmes or a genius like any of my parents to see how he feels about you. However, I will acquiesce that I think he feels several things in conflict with each other, at present?”

“That’s very him…” Nodding, Shiro glances around, checking to see if Keith or Shay is coming back. Neither of them is, so he banishes all thoughts of to the tune of, _An actual genius sure would’ve helped, since I’ve been called one for as long as I can remember and I still missed this until I ran out of plausible deniability_. Before he can get lost in any spiraling self-doubt, he tacks on, “I mean, Keith feels things very intensely and they don’t always agree with each other, which he _hates_ …”

Smirking, Allura agrees that this is very true of their mutual friend. Idly, Shiro wishes that he’d left some part of his hair loose to play with, or left one his braids hanging instead of having Hunk tie both of them back with his ponytail. Even if that made him look like _Phantom Menace_ Ewan McGregor or _Attack of the Clones_ Hayden Christensen, Shiro would at least have something to keep his hands busy that looks less unbalanced than wringing them and doesn’t count as self-harm like scratching himself unnecessarily, grabbing things too hard, and similar. In lieu of his hair, Shiro fusses with his straw, clinking it against the ice cubes, then bending it back and forth — but only for so long. Pursing his lips, Shiro takes a sip and steels himself so he can push through saying this.

“But that’s not the point,” he says, for all he should do a better job of looking Allura in the eye. “I’ve screwed up by Keith before. Pretty badly. But he’s never stopped being important to me, and I…” Swallowing thickly, Shiro makes himself look at her to say, “I love him. And it means _so much_ to me to have found him again, and I wanted to thank you? For being such a good friend to him and helping keep him around.”

“You don’t need to thank me for that, Shiro,” Allura tells him without a moment’s thought. “Keith has been a very good friend to me, as well — more so than most people have ever tried to be. Whether or not he agrees or feels that I _should_ , I consider him a part of my family. He might get along terribly well with my Father if he weren’t always so tense about trying to impress him…”

She huffs, not quite discontentedly, but then gets a chilling sparkle in her eyes. “Which is why _must_ ask: What _are_ your intentions with Keith, exactly?”

“Oh, _God_ ,” Shiro mumbles, then flushes pink as he silently curses himself for not keeping that sentiment locked up tight inside his own head, where it belonged. Especially considering how he can’t begrudge Allura wanting to ask a question like that. Looking at her illegible expression isn’t helping Shiro give her a real answer, so he ignores the guilt stinging in the back of his throat and drops his gaze. Even after being bent up every which way, the tiny black straw still feels hard as he rolls it between his fingers.

“I get the concern, Princess,” he says, and hopes he doesn’t sound horribly rude, using _Keith’s_ nickname for her like this. “There’s a lot I’ve missed, and I’ve screwed up a lot. There’s a lot that I need to make right, and I’ve seen a lot of signs that Keith isn’t doing so well, right now? But the last thing I _ever_ want to do is hurt him again. I want to help him, however I can. And yes, making amends to him would help me and I _do_ want to be with him, so this isn’t _entirely_ selfless? But I love him, and I want him to be happier… I can’t promise that I’m never going to slip up with my sobriety but I wish I could, when so many of the times I hurt him involved that, but I…”

There’s so much more, bubbling up in Shiro’s throat for him to say, but it all trails off into blank silence as he finally forces himself to look back at Allura. Maybe she doesn’t look like she’s on the verge of tears, but Shiro wouldn’t be surprised if she started, the way her lower lip is quivering. Wide-eyed, she scrunches up her nose, and looks at Shiro as if the rest of the restaurant has, for the moment, ceased existing. Worse, she’s looking at him like something’s broken, or like she’s scared that it _might_ break in very short order.

“What’s wrong?” he says. “Allura, are you okay?”

“Shiro, I…” she starts, and then gulps, watching him like _he_ might be the thing she’s scared of breaking. “My apologies, I didn’t mean…” Tucking a piece of hair behind her ear again, Allura slouches. “I didn’t realize that you were so high-strung about this, or that it was such a sore spot for you… I thought I might lighten the mood by acting overprotective like that? I didn’t actually mean to question whether or not you…”

She takes a deep breath and steadies herself, then tells him, “I did not mean to upset you or to imply that you might not truly care for Keith. And I certainly did not intend to suggest that you might not be capable of treating him well because you’re a recovering addict. Nothing you’ve shown me so far has made me fear that, and I’m sorry, Shiro, for making you feel as though I doubted you when you said that you love Keith. Because I don’t doubt that, at all.”

With how earnestly Allura is staring at him, Shiro needs to come up with something _good_ to say? He can’t let her sit there and look like it, but, _“Apology accepted”_ doesn’t feel like enough? Even adding a coda like, _“But unnecessary, because it’s fine”_ doesn’t feel like it’s good enough. Not when Allura’s looking so upset and she’s so important to Keith, and more importantly, this is _her_ birthday, too? She shouldn’t _need_ to apologize for anything, especially not when she was only trying to be kind and have fun with someone who’s important to her best friend.

But Shiro has to say _something_ , so he scoots even closer to the table and tells her, “It’s okay, and thank you, and I’m sorry? For ruining your joke like that? I usually have a better sense of humor? Or as long as you don’t mind terrible puns.”

Maybe it’s not Shiro’s best, but it gets Allura to snicker and smile at him again.

“Terrible puns are one of the highest forms of art,” she says. “ _Almost_ as high as trading numbers with your best friend’s… _someone_?”

“I’d say, _‘it’s complicated,’_ and in fairness, there _are_ a few convoluted parts? But mostly, Keith and I need to talk about it. And do a better job of that than we’ve _been_ doing. Not that it’s difficult to do better than we’ve been doing, but… We’re working on it? Or we will be, anyway?”

Regardless, Shiro fires off a text to Allura and returns her smile when she asks how he’d like for her to put his name in her phone. Once he’s double-checked the spelling on her surname, he saves her with an emoji shaped like a crown and one that looks like sparkles. Sure, he and Keith may not have the first clue what they’re doing, but that’s no reason to be rude, and Allura may be one of the most sparkling people Shiro’s ever had the pleasure to meet.

*** * ***

Although the mood doesn’t _plummet_ after dessert comes and Allura handles the bill, it’s not hard to miss the way that Keith slumps onto his elbows with a half-sighing, half-grumbling noise like he could all too easily sleep for the next week or so, maybe like he wishes he could get away with that.

Given midterms and how little sleep he’s been able to get, thanks to the band, that much makes sense enough, but it still gnaws on Shiro’s nerves, to see Keith looking so pale and tired and _sad_. Agreeing to come back to the apartment, he doesn’t take the chance to ask if the request as any particular undertones much less if any of them are sexual. Allura arches both eyebrows, but Keith doesn’t even seem to notice when her phone _pings!_ with the sound of Shiro texting her, _“We need to talk, and my place is closer than his. If he doesn’t want to stay over, I’ll make sure he gets home safe.”_

On the way out, when Shiro offers to carry his backpack for him, Keith’s fuss about letting him do so for him is tokenistic, at best. Some grousing that’s limper than overcooked spaghetti and makes even less logical sense. A long, silent stare with no real energy behind it, only an edge like, _“Why are you doing this?”_ as if Keith wants to whine about Shiro doing anything to help him. Maybe as if Shiro is the one who needs someone to look out for him, right now. Maybe as if he feels like he’s obligated to refuse any assistance, regardless of how freely it’s being offered to him. Or maybe Shiro’s assuming too much about how Keith’s feeling again and needs to stop himself already since that’s part of how they got into this tangled, sticky mess at all.

Even so, he sucks it up and leads them down the path that goes by Lotor’s place. Noticing that Keith is tired doesn’t feel like an assumption. If there’s any way in which it could count as one, then Shiro doesn’t feel like it’s one he’s in the wrong for making, or one that he’s wrong for trying to take into account. Besides, the lights may be on at Lotor’s place, so he and at least some of the gals are home, but the only thing that happens as they walk past is that Keith hovers closer to Shiro’s side without explaining why. Whether it counts as an assumption or not, Shiro wants to believe that Keith’s doing this because he thinks Shiro seems tense and wishes that he didn’t.

As they get closer to his building, Shiro wonders if he should try saying something. Something more than what he’s said so far, or maybe something else. Keith barely reacted to hearing that Shiro had a nice time tonight and that he really likes Allura, though he seemed both of those things good. He didn’t have much to say about whether or not he’d had an okay evening. Hearing Shiro say that he’s not asking Keith up to his apartment for sex — _“Not that I’m **opposed** , in general? But maybe not tonight, y’know? Tonight, I just want to talk, if that’s okay?”_ — Keith only shrugged. It always used to strange, finding themselves in a place like this, where Keith hasn’t gone _entirely_ non-verbal but he doesn’t feel that responsive, either. Whether he’s retreating into his head or not, or maybe getting lost in his own thoughts, it makes Shiro want to find _some_ magic word that he can say to help make things better.

They make it inside without Shiro putting anything together. They get into the middle elevator and Keith sighs like he can’t help it but wishes that he _could_. Shiro indulges himself in a silent prayer, hoping that things clear up between him and Keith sooner rather than later. Instead, right as he lets himself think this might pan out, the elevator creaks. Keith snaps to attention, wide-eyed, and braces himself against the wall. The lights flicker but steady themselves, a bit dimmer than before. The cab jerks, knocking Shiro into the other corner. Then, everything stops.

Taking a deep breath, Shiro adjusts the straps of Keith’s backpack on his shoulders. He fights off the impulse to roll his eyes, but God, this building deserves it, sometimes. But it could be worse, he reminds himself as he pushes the big red button and sounds the bell. He and Keith are both in one piece. They’re together, heading upstairs to talk. For the most part, tonight’s gone well until now. Keith agreed to come back here instead of pulling away like Shiro feared he might. True, the elevator kills the reception on Shiro’s phone, so he can’t fire off a text asking Pidge and Matt to please go see their super, just in case, but Hunk and Lance let Shiro have privacy with Keith tonight. Shiro hasn’t thought about purging until right now, realizing that he hasn’t felt the urge to do that to himself all night, not even after he had to talk himself down from that, between reading Keith’s essay and spilling his soul for Hunk, Lance, and Pidge. Since Lance killed the discussion of Shiro’s old _“cocktails,”_ the only time he’s needed to center himself about alcohol was when Allura asked if he would terribly mind her and Shay having any wine with dinner (he didn’t, but they still limited themselves to one glass each, which was kind of them). He isn’t coming up with any reasons why the things he’s grateful for are rubbish that he doesn’t deserve to feel pleased about, which jumps out at Shiro like the realization of how long it’s been since he thought about making himself sick on purpose…

But mentally going over his daily list of gratitudes doesn’t fix the elevator. Worse, there’s a heavy, rustling sound like someone struggling to keep a tight leash on his breath. Turning to Keith, Shiro finds him hunching in around himself, hugging his chest.

“Hey, are you okay?” Shiro says softly, going with a redundant question first so Keith might feel like he has more freedom in his choice of answers.

When he shakes his head, _“No,”_ Shiro nods. “What’s wrong?”

Keith breathes out, “ _Nothing_?” but even he doesn’t sound convinced by it. His arms tremble, from his palms digging into the railing on the wall, running up to his shoulders. All over, he looks like he’s shivering.

Not a moment later, Keith coughs like he’s trying to cover a different noise that his body almost made. He clings harder at the rail, knuckles going bleached white as he tightens his grip. He gasps, palms grinding against the edge, and bites out, “ _Everything_? I don’t _know_ …”

Shiro has to choke down a sigh at the teetering sob that creaks out of Keith’s throat. Making Keith feel like a burden wouldn’t help, it’d only make things worse, no matter that Shiro’s sighing out of concern and sympathy and frustration with his own feelings of helplessness in this situation. With the way Keith’s hair hangs over his face, Shiro can’t see much — but he can make out enough of Keith’s twisted up grimace that he wants to just hug Keith to his chest, hold him close, and do whatever he can to keep Keith safe from whatever wants to threaten him today, tomorrow, the next day, or the day after that, for as long as Keith wants him around.

Instead of rushing in headlong, though, Shiro edges toward Keith. He’s slow and careful about reaching out to him, extending a hand so he can brush his fingers through Keith’s hair, tuck some of it back off his face, let him know that Shiro’s still here and open to being leaned on—

With a soft, whining grunt, Keith bats Shiro’s hand away.

…Alright, so Keith wants some space. Nodding gingerly, Shiro puts several inches between them. As he leans against the wall, still facing Keith, he silences his objections about how it’s all going to be okay, Keith doesn’t need to worry, because he’s right here with Shiro and not anywhere that his memories may be pulling up (though for someone with his experiences with enclosed spaces, Keith isn’t terribly claustrophobic, unless that’s changed lately), and the elevator should get fixed soon enough. But then Keith whimpers, and his knees tremble like they could give out soon and so very easily, and another sob claws its way out of him. Without hesitation, Shiro darts back to his side.

Reaching for Keith’s hair gets his hand smacked away again.

Fighting back another sigh, Shiro rubs at the bridge of his nose. He uses his most gentle voice to say, “Keith, I want to help—”

“Well, I want to _not be crying_ ,” Keith snaps. But before he can go on, it cuts into another half-choked sob and he mumbles an apology as he scrubs at his eyes harder than Shiro likes. “…Sorry, just. It’s not your fault, I’m sorry… I said I wasn’t gonna _cry_ … Not in front of _you_ …”

Which stings. Shiro would like to pretend it doesn’t but he won’t do himself any favors like that, and that could make it harder to do right by Keith. Besides, this kind of statement is as surprising as the Pope secretly being Catholic, between the essay and how Keith’s always been — and stewing in that utter lack of surprise helps no one, at the moment. For now, Shiro lets himself inhale deeply and look down at Keith’s hands. He acknowledges the way that something writhes inside his chest, even though he _knows_ that it’s not _really_ about him. Any parts that might be tied to Shiro and what he means to Keith, they’re ultimately about Keith and his own feelings.

But still, Keith needs _something_ and Shiro needs to do something with his hands. He tries putting one on Keith’s shoulder this time, hesitating until Keith nods for him that it’s okay. Squeezing gently and rubbing at his arm, Shiro looks at Keith and nowhere else. He hopes like Hell that it doesn’t make Keith feel like he’s underneath a microscope when all Shiro wants is to make sure he doesn’t miss out on anything that could prove important, and to maybe get it through Keith’s head that he’s not alone.

“Keith,” he whispers. “It’s okay—”

“No, it’s _not_!” His voice sounds half-strangled, like Keith can’t decide if he wants to let himself say this or not. Rubbing at his eyes again, Keith struggles not to let out a sob, but the sob wins out. “I don’t know why I’m _like_ this, okay? There’s nothing worth _crying_ over, it’s just the _elevator_ , it’s _not_ like everything’s broken, or _anything_ , except for me, but then I don’t…? And it’s _terrifying_ , but I can’t…?”

Groaning, he knocks his head against the wall. Shiro can’t help squeaking in concern, or gingerly reaching up to check the back of Keith’s head. He didn’t hit the wall that hard, but even so, Shiro has to check. Any kind of conk on the skull can do so much more damage than you realize — or that’s what Ulaz told Shiro about why it counts as self-harm when he does similar things himself. But Keith doesn’t seem to have cracked anything… Finally, Shiro lets out a sigh, only because it’s one of relief, and drops his hand back to Keith’s shoulder.

As Shiro’s silently hoping that he hasn’t gone and made Keith feel worse, Keith spins around and grabs onto him. Burrowing into Shiro’s chest, he’s quiet, and whimpers again as Shiro wraps one arm around his shoulders and puts the other hand up in his hair. Nosing and kissing at the bit of Keith’s forehead he can get to right now, that makes Keith cling at Shiro harder.

“It’s okay to cry, Keith…” Shiro tries to say it firmly without sounding _harsh_ or _cold_. He can’t tell it he’s succeeding when Keith shakes his head. But at least he doesn’t pull back, and he makes a less miserable-sounding noise when Shiro hugs him closer. “You’re not broken; you’re _human_. You don’t need to hide this… You cannot scare me off by crying.”

Keith huffs and turns his head out of Shiro’s chest, just enough to mumble, “But your shirt…” more audibly.

“We’re doing laundry on Wednesday night, and I was going to change in the apartment anyway.” Shiro nuzzles at Keith’s head and tries to restrain a maybe-could-be-smile when Keith doesn’t turn away from it. “Shirts can get replaced, Keith. _You_ can’t.”

*** * ***

Shiro’s not sure how to take it, when Keith clings at him until the elevator starts up again. He’s not sure how to take it when Keith stays burrowed against his side, not exactly obstructing Shiro’s efforts at getting them down the hall without exactly helping either, with one arm looped around Shiro’s waist. He’s also not sure how to take it when Keith doesn’t take an offered seat at the kitchen table but instead follows Shiro to his room and drops onto the bed. He gives more attention to Shiro’s stuffed black lion, setting it in his lap and brushing his fingers through its mane.

Following Shiro here would make more sense if Keith were ogling him while Shiro hangs up his suit, drops the shirt in his basket of laundry, and changes clothes, but he only catches Keith looking at him once. While he’s topless, in the middle of switching out his shirts, he catches a glimpse of Keith in the mirror. When he turns around, Keith blinks at him, but without blushing or seeming like he got caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Trying to smirk back playfully, Shiro doesn’t get out a single jibe about Keith window-shopping. Sure, he _wants_ to, but two things get in the way and won’t let Shiro take that way out of this.

First off, even thinking about those old jokes of his makes this one catch inside his throat, right there with his breath. Making them in Chicago never convinced Keith that things were okay — nor should they have, considering — and God, but his essay throws all the comments Shiro can remember into sharper relief. It casts cold, harsh light on how it could’ve sounded like Shiro was mocking Keith’s feelings for him. If he accounted for the possibility that Shiro didn’t _know_ about those feelings, then Keith still could’ve felt dismissed or worse, and Shiro can’t say he wouldn’t have felt the same if they’d been in each other’s places.

Secondly, though, Keith’s watching on without any real energy or intent behind it. Something flickers soft and quiet across his face when Shiro hesitates before wriggling all the way into his t-shirt, but if anything, it looks like yearning. Whatever Keith’s feeling, Shiro gets a cold, heavy, twisting feeling in his chest for the mere thought of poking fun at it. God, he’s gonna need to take this to Ulaz, at least. Maybe Mitch and Robin, but definitely Ulaz. Shiro brings Keith back here to talk about things, then almost ruins it before they’ve gotten started by joking around about important things instead of taking them seriously and allowing himself to be afraid about how they might pan out. As though his badly timed attempted jests and their perpetually bad timing ever got Shiro out of his emotions before.

The only thing that keeps him from dwelling on his guilt is, oddly enough, Keith’s face. Mostly because he starts frowning bemusedly.

“You still have that shirt?” he says without judgment, furrowing his brow.

Shiro wrinkles his nose back at the mirror and the letters that, when they’re properly oriented, spell out, _“Frankie Says Relax.”_

With a bashful grin, he shrugs and tells Keith, “I like it? And it still fits, so…?”

“You are _such_ a dweeb…” For all he doesn’t entirely manage a smile, Keith’s fondness comes through clearly.

Maybe it’s not much — it’s definitely no substitute for talking openly, the way they need to — but Keith’s smiling, which is something positive. He drags his backpack and the lion out to the kitchen when Shiro leads them there, and while the insistent self-reliance could be worrisome, once Keith’s sitting down, he doesn’t fuss about Shiro bringing him a glass of water (or, thankfully, about drinking it). He picks tea over coffee, and when Shiro gets the kettle set up on the stove just fine, Keith mumbles something into his hand. It sounds a lot like, _“Wow, you **can** do something in the kitchen after all,”_ and although it sounds limp, he snorts when Shiro guesses that this is fair and probably deserved.

Waiting for the water to boil, Keith slouches onto the table and Shiro unleashes his fringe. He’s a fan of his braids, aesthetically, but after everything else that’s gone on today, he needs to have his hair loose for this conversation, whenever one of them starts it. Even if he doesn’t end up _needing_ to play with it while he and Keith cover as much ground as they can, better safe than sorry. By the time Keith gets his mug, he hasn’t made any moves to say anything, much less ask why Shiro brought him back here if not for sex. Pushing down a sigh, Shiro leans on his elbows and curls his hands around his cup.

“This might seem redundant,” he says, “but can you tell me how you’re feeling? About what happened in the elevator? Or anything else?”

Keith sits up straighter while he’s thinking about that question, but only so he can slouch back in his seat, arms folded over his chest. One of his feet knocks into Shiro’s ankle, probably an accident. But it’s distinctly intentional when Keith shifts his leg around and scoots closer to the table, so he can let more of his leg droop against Shiro’s. He only quirks his lips a bit when Shiro presses against him in return, but it’s warm and it’s sweet, and after a moment, Keith nods and rubs their legs together.

“I guess I feel _humiliated_ about it?” he says. “Which is stupid. You’ve seen me cry before. And I _do_ trust you with that. And fuck, I cried in front of Lance, so it shouldn’t be any big deal to cry in front of _you_ … Except it was humiliating with Lance, too. And with you, it’s like…”

God, what Shiro wouldn’t give to hear an unabridged version of what happened at the record store. Keith and Lance don’t _need_ to share that, but Shiro wouldn’t mind if they _wanted_ to quit blindsiding him with all these perpetually unexplained references to what they said and did. For now, though, Shiro files it away that Keith apparently cried, somewhere in there with all the story-time and sing-alongs. Taking a deep breath, he tightens his hold on his mug, then lets up so he can focus better on what he tells Keith and how he says it.

“I get that…” Carefully, Shiro tries nodding. He looks at Keith, but hopefully, he doesn’t zero in too hard. “It was humiliating, the first time I cried in front of the group — er, my therapy group in rehab, I mean. Crying at meetings still makes me feel kinda sick, when it happens. And it’s maybe a little easier when it’s one-on-one with someone, but…”

“Whatever you’re doing is clearly _working_ , though,” Keith mutters.

“It’s not about… I mean, it’s not like…” _Don’t sigh, don’t sigh, do not do anything to make him feel like your reactions are his fault, and whatever you do about this, do. **Not.** Sigh._ “…There are good days and bad days. Sometimes, _really_ bad days. It’s not like I found one magical thing that…”

Shiro barely swallows this next would-be sigh. “But now I feel like I’m being condescending?”

“Yeah, I can see why…” Keith says it offhandedly, then clenches his fingers into his elbow. “…Sorry. I didn’t mean that to sound like, I don’t know? Like you don’t ever have bad days or anything? Because that’s stupid, and I know better, and…” He sighs enough for both of them, nudging his leg against Shiro’s. Blinking at the ceiling, he says, “But… you wanted to talk about something, right?”

“I did, yeah. But we can get there when we get there.”

“Because you don’t actually want to talk about it, but feel like you _should_?”

Shiro huffs and gives himself a moment before he says, “Fair point for concern. But mostly, I want to make sure that you’re okay.”

The laugh that Keith hacks up sounds torn, and hard, and the opposite of reassuring. It sends a chill straight to the pit of Shiro’s stomach, but it’s still not as bad as Keith telling him, “Then you’re gonna be waiting for a while, Shiro. Because I am basically _never_ okay. All I ever do is _fake_ it. Because there’s no reason for me _not_ to be okay.”

Shiro doubts that, but as he runs his thumbs up and down the warm ceramic, he’s not sure Keith would listen to any objections. That’s fair enough, too. Even if Keith weren’t as troubled as he is, Shiro didn’t listen to him while in his own Bad Places. But that was then and all Shiro can do about it now is focus on Keith. Let this be _about_ Keith, because he’s the one who was just crying on Shiro. Keep his own head as clear as possible and fixed on helping _Keith_. Asking how long Keith’s been feeling _not_ -okay might not feel like much to Shiro, but he doesn’t know how it feels or not to Keith, and whatever Keith’s answer is, it could prove important.

As he considers the question, Keith shrugs. “I don’t know?” he admits. “Long enough that I didn’t really notice until you crashed back in. Not that it was your fault or anything, it wasn’t, but…” His leg shoves past Shiro’s as he slumps back further. “It was easier to pretend like everything was fine when you weren’t here. Allura would probably disagree, but…”

The first thought Shiro has to silence wants to go, _Well, it sure sounds like this is my fault_ — but that isn’t what Keith means, so Shiro refuses to let himself go there. The second one he pushes aside is Hunk’s voice in the back of his head, reminding him not to play Keith’s therapist when he wants to be Keith’s boyfriend. Even if they go to a place of non-romantic, non-sexual friendship instead, Shiro can’t do that _and_ be Keith’s therapist. That’s not fair on either of them and could too easily hurt more than it helps.

But he also can’t stay quiet for too long without risk of killing the momentum and needing to start over. So, he gives Keith a small smile and says the third thing that comes to mind: “Thank you for letting me meet her, by the way? I like Allura. And meeting someone who’s so important to you means a lot to me.”

“ _What_ ,” Keith snaps, “like you _aren’t_ important to me?” He whips his head up and frowns at Shiro in hurt and disbelief. “Like _any_ of the past week-and-a-half would’ve _ever_ happened with us if I _didn’t_ care about you? Like I wouldn’t… Or like I’d even… You _matter_ to me, okay, Shiro? How in the _fuck_ are you still not getting that?”

_For once, I **am** getting it, actually, but_ — Shiro takes a deep breath and nods. “That’s not what I meant,” he says carefully. “But I’m sorry that I came off that way. And I can see why I did. Especially in light of how… I mean, my list of priors here is, uh. _Considerable_ , at best—”

“Yeah, ya _think_?” Keith isn’t exactly _glaring_ at Shiro, but a glint burns in his eyes like he _dares_ Shiro to lie to him right now. Faking a smile right now could hurt Keith as badly as outright lying, and as much as Shiro wants to look away, he forces himself to keep meeting Keith’s stormy eyes. “You’re _important_ to me. You _matter_. I’ll tell you as many times as it takes until this gets through to you—”

“ _Keith_.”

Much as Shiro wants to stick to some of group’s more useful rules like, _“Don’t talk over someone,”_ he’s not letting this particular thread keep going. Keith’s deflecting, and he interrupted Shiro first so turnabout’s fair play. Plus, as Shiro experimentally sniffs his tea (definitely hasn’t steeped enough), he can’t deny that having this tacit accusation leveled at him smarts a bit. He’s earned people’s suspicion on this count, so it’s more than fair for Keith to worry about it. But this doesn’t mean Shiro wants to hear it right now when it clearly isn’t helping.

He doesn’t hold back the tired little sigh as he makes himself look at Keith. “All I meant is that I _know_ how hard things like that can be for you,” he says. “Potentially tense social situations… Introducing people, _especially_ people who matter to you… Sharing someone else who you care about with me… It meant a lot to me that you did this at all. Never mind doing it on _your_ birthday and when you’re already stressed out like you have been lately.”

For a long moment, all Keith does is blink at Shiro with an expression that betrays all the cogs spinning in his head. “Oh…” he mutters. Silently, he rubs at one of his eyes again, then drags his fingers through his hair, nudging some of it back off his face. “Sorry, I… I didn’t mean to take your head off like that, I shouldn’t have, I…”

“I didn’t feel like you were taking my head off.” It’s not a lie. But that’s also not quite as truthful as Shiro needs to be right now, so he adds on, “No, I didn’t _like_ hearing that? Because I _did_ feel put on the spot, and I can’t pretend like I haven’t given you reason to feel that way. But it _worried_ me, too. Made me worry about _you_.”

“Oh, God, I… Shiro, why are we even… _Ugh_ …” Groaning softly, Keith nudges his tea aside and face-plants into the black lion’s stomach.

Alright, this talk may have more stops and starts to it than Shiro expected, going into things.

But he’s fine with waiting, if it might help keep things as comfortable for Keith as they can be. Not least since there’s basically no way that he’s going to ever be really at ease about this, and right now, Shiro’s less tense than he is. So, Shiro wilts closer to the table, until he’s almost level with Keith, gets himself into an okay enough position, and waits. After a few minutes, Keith hasn’t come back up and he’s barely moved. It doesn’t sound like he’s crying, or even like he’s trying not to. All he’s doing is burying his face in Shiro’s lion, trying to keep breathing. He doesn’t find a rhythm for it, but he doesn’t stop trying.

Dimly, Shiro wonders if this could be a clever ploy for attention and/or sympathy, then shakes his head as if that might help him banish the thought entirely. Keith’s too upset for playing any games like that and it’s not his style in the first place. Or at least, if he’s doing this, then it’s not conscious, on Keith’s part. He isn’t a self-admitted, unrepentant monster like Maurice. He isn’t a silver-tongued, manipulative drama prince like Lotor. He isn’t even a mess like Shiro, where instead of admitting that he’s having a bad day and risk feeling like he’s a burden to his friends or Ryou — even though he’s been called out for this exact behavior more times than he cares to count — he’d rather sulk in his room, listening to, “Needle In The Hay,” “Give Me Novocaine,” and Johnny Cash’s version of, “Hurt” until Lance invites himself in and asks what’s wrong.

No, Keith is troubled, and he’s damaged, but not in any way that would make this anything but genuine. If any part of him is trying to get attention, then God, it’s because he hasn’t gotten enough of it and he _needs_ some TLC from someone.

“I’m going to move closer to you, okay?” Shiro waits for Keith to nod before going to his side. “Can I play with your hair?”

That offer takes Keith a little while longer to think about, but he nods again soon enough. As Shiro rests his palm on the back of Keith’s head, Keith’s shoulders tense like he’s flinching. It doesn’t last; as soon as he’s breathing in again, Keith melts. He shifts around, a bit awkwardly, angling toward Shiro and although his sigh is distinctly not _contented_ , he sounds slightly less miserable. For another few minutes, Shiro waits again and slowly, tenderly brushes his fingers through Keith’s hair, tucking clumps behind his ear and mussing along the back of his neck. He isn’t certain what he’s waiting _for_ , whether Keith’s going to give him some kind of sign or he’s going to decide on his own to speak up and move things along. Except Keith does neither of those things, which is more than fair, albeit mildly unhelpful.

“I don’t know about you?” Shiro says, so they won’t completely lose momentum. “But right now, there’s nowhere else I’d rather be than here with you. Or your place with you. Or wherever you are.” He pauses while Keith whines incoherently, then allows himself another sigh. He may not know what he’s responding to, and guessing could be dangerous, but nothing ventured, Shiro guesses. “I’m sorry you’re hurting, and I’m sorry that I left… But I really did miss you, Keith. Whatever you’re feeling, or whatever you’re afraid of, I’ve thought about you so much.”

Keith butts against Shiro’s palm and looks up. He watches Shiro with a soft expression, eyes dewy and lips wobbling somewhere between a smile and a pout. “It’s good to have you back.”

“It’s good to be back.” Shiro hopes Keith trusts this smile, because it’s genuine.

“I just… I still can’t believe you’re _here_. And you’ve _been_ here, right in the same city as me, for _so long_ …?” He doesn’t sit up much straighter or pry himself away from the black lion, but Keith pushes some of his hair back off his face again. “You’ve been right here, practically this entire time, within a few degrees of separation, and I never…”

_Oh, no_ … Now, Keith’s being unfairly down on himself. That’s even worse than him being down on Shiro. Maybe neither of them’s perfect, but there’s a line between a realistic assessment of your own problems and your different screw ups, and outright bashing yourself. One of those things has the potential to help Keith, but the other one is only going to hurt him further. Slipping his own white fringe behind his ear, Shiro steadies himself. He takes a deep whiff of his tea, then a cautious sip. Still not _quite_ as steeped as he’d like, and probably a good thing, too. That’s one less distraction to wander into the middle of a conversation that’s already difficult.

“To be fair, you didn’t know—”

“If I’d listened to _Mark_ , I would have,” Keith points out. “He tried to tell me not to pawn my old phone…”

“I might’ve asked him not to tell you, though. I hated being away from you, but when I got out of rehab and started settling in here…”

Shiro could kick himself for sighing, but it’s quiet and hopefully, Keith knows that it’s not about him. A fuller version of the story might help with that, as much as Shiro would rather not go there right now. But the wormy, finicky, _inner addict_ part of his brain hisses at him not to tattle about this and make Keith’s life even harder — which means that Shiro probably _should_ open up about it. Because maybe it’s going to suck, and maybe it’s going to hurt, and he has no idea how Keith’s going to take any of this — but keeping it to himself is what Shiro’s addict-brain wants to do. Keeping it to himself is only going to make him feel justified in keeping things from the people he loves, make him feel like it’s better this way and they don’t need to deal with his issues, and make him feel like he has everything completely handled on his own.

They’ve been here, done this dance too many times. No excuse for trusting thoughts like this.

Staring at his mug, Shiro swallows thickly and makes himself admit: “When I got out of rehab, I was a wreck. I drove myself up a wall every night, double and triple-checking Ryou’s windows, because yeah, I had a new phone, I deactivated my Facebook, and I never checked my old Youtube anymore? But I was _so sure_ Maurice would find me again. And I wanted to get back out there, doing things, but I kept taking on too much and knocking myself over. Holing up in Ryou’s apartment didn’t work, either. I’d get restless and throw myself into _something_ so I wouldn’t think about how it’d all feel so much _easier_ if I were wasted. Except that _something_ almost always went too far… There were a lot of times when I only went to meetings and therapy because I didn’t want Ryou to know I was doubting my commitment to getting better—”

“Except it’s _Ryou_ ,” Keith huffs limply. “So, he probably figured it out?”

“Oh, he _knew_.” Shiro smirks at his hands, and hopes that Keith isn’t looking too closely. There’s no way that this expression looks any kind of pleasant, much less reassuring. “I mean, we had nice moments like him being proud of me for refusing narcotics at the ER after our rock-climbing misadventure? But we had as many bad moments like, ‘Kashi, you are so obviously _not_ doing fine, why do you think that I can’t _tell_ ’ — which? Depressing question, but the answer to it was even worse…”

“You _knew_ he could tell, but didn’t want him to care?” While not small, Keith’s voice is tight and quivering.

It kicks Shiro in the stomach, hearing Keith sound like that. But when he’s done nodding, he makes himself look up again, because Keith deserves eye contact as Shiro tells him, “My real point is, though? I could barely handle _Ryou_ seeing me like that. I probably wouldn’t have gotten to be friends with Hunk and Lance if they hadn’t been so understanding and persistent.”

Lance’s former star-struckness toward Shiro helped in its own way, too. Granted, it made Shiro tense up more than his fair share, but it also made Lance more eager to get to know him — but that part feels more like something to omit for courtesy. He and Keith are starting to get along, and yes, Keith knows that Lance has it bad for Hunk. But smart money says that Keith and Lance are going to have a perpetual work-in-progress cut out for them about the bare minimum of getting along, more so if they want to try at _really_ being friends. So help him, Shiro’s _not_ going to wreck that blossoming mutual tolerance by making it sound like Lance ever had any outright crush on him or like he ever joined Lance in considering how they might work out, romantically.

“Maurice made me send you that letter,” he explains softly, gripping his mug tighter as he forces himself to look Keith in the eye. “But he didn’t check it over first. I thought it was kind, at the time, but that’s what he wanted me to think… Anyway, it was write you that or he’d call a few well-placed friends, put in a few favors, and tip off the cops about you—”

“The _cops_?” Keith splutters. “About what, underage drinking? ‘Cause you made me get a permit for my Mom’s knife, so…?”

“More like sexual assault and illegal possession of narcotics?” Which corkscrews its way through Shiro’s chest even harder than it did when he had to open up about it in rehab and with Ulaz, but he has to get through it. He has to admit this, because Keith deserves to know more of the story. “I thought Maurice was maybe reaching about the sexual assault… I’d been intoxicated while I was with you, but I wasn’t going to be his complaining witness? But I couldn’t remember if I’d gotten all of my pills or not, when he took me back to his place. With how hard people were coming down about prescription drug abuse and misdirection of medication…”

For all he chokes down a sigh, Shiro can’t repress a shudder. “He said to end things or you could get more time for maybe having _my_ pills still in the apartment than for…” A deep breath and Shiro clamps his hands tighter on his mug. “…For giving a few pity-fucks to a simpering, pretty boy burnout—”

“So, you wouldn’t have wanted to see me right after rehab because… you thought that it’d get me _arrested_?”

“No, I was over that part, mostly, but…” He only means to stretch his legs, not knock one of them into Keith’s. But when Shiro knocks their legs into each other, Keith hooks one of his around Shiro’s calf almost protectively. Which gets Shiro through saying, “I still believed what I put in there about how you’d be better off, and I _did_ want you to go have a life… Maybe I don’t know for sure how it would’ve panned out? But I know what kind of mess I was back then, and I feel pretty sure that I would’ve lashed out and pushed you away—”

“Then I could’ve called you out on it. At the risk of sounding like I don’t take this seriously? I’m _not_ that innocent. _You_ oughta know…” Keith huffs, steely with resolution, and takes a drink of his tea. He arches an eyebrow, probably at how Shiro’s pursing his lips to refrain from acknowledging the jump Keith made from Britney Spears to Alanis Morrisette, and to keep himself from saying anything about what possible layers of significance he could interpret in Keith juxtaposing, “You Oughta Know” and, “Oops! I Did It Again.”

When Shiro successfully says nothing, Keith’s lips quirk up in something like a smile. But he’s dead serious when he tells Shiro, “And now, at the risk of maybe hurting your feelings? I’m calling you out. Because I feel like you’re kinda pushing me away, even if you don’t _mean_ to—”

“I didn’t mean it like that—”

“I didn’t really think you did, but…” Keith sighs and gives Shiro a soft, gentle not-quite-smile. He thinks about his next move for a moment before saying, “If I have to call you out, then I’m gonna do _that_ as many times as it takes, too. About anything. As long as it means you won’t disappear again. Into yourself or anywhere else.”

“I don’t want to. Maybe I can’t make any promises about what’s _going_ to happen, but I promise to keep working on it, so I’ll be less likely to pull any stunts like that again…” Then, Shiro gets an idea. A certain idea. A possibly very questionable certain idea — but he tongues at his lips and warbles, “ _It’s gonna take a lot to drag me away from yooooou. There’s nothing that a hundred men or more could ever dooooo. I bless the raaaaaains down in_ —”

While Shiro finishes the chorus, Keith snorts into his mug, only barely avoiding the fate of choking on his tea. Shiro expects a calling-out to happen next, but instead, Keith buries his face in the lion again, full-body laughing in fits and starts like it’s been way too long since the last time he had the chance to enjoy himself so much. He’s still smiling by the time he pulls himself together, cheeks all flushed even as his grin slowly turns itself down. Good God, Keith’s beautiful. His eyes look like tempests but they always do. After getting tossed around, his hair’s ruffled like he just came in from a blustery day. And Shiro so badly wants to kiss him, except that’s most likely not constructive. Not until they get everything cleared up.

“You’re such a _dweeb_ ,” Keith whispers, shaking his head ever-so-fondly. But then, he brings all of the seriousness crashes back down on them: “But still… I’ve been thinking about this all day, y’know? Like, Pidge goes to my school. I could’ve gotten to know her if I hadn’t written off the campus brain-freak meetings as totally pointless unless I was hungry and they had free food—”

_There’s no guarantee that you two would’ve gotten along if you’d met on your own. You both have strong personalities, and you could’ve clashed very easily,_ Shiro doesn’t let himself point out, because Pidge likes Keith now, Shiro needs to hang onto that, and telling Keith anything that might confirm any of his ideas about people being better off without him? Bad idea.

“—Hunk dated Shay, and she’s in my department? She’s been around, working on her projects, and she… I could’ve befriended her _before_ she started dating Allura? It’s not even like she didn’t _try_ , but I just…” Trailing off, Keith sets the lion upright. With a quiet sigh, he slouches onto it and rests his chin on top of it. “You guys play shows. I may not go out that often, between money and the whole _bar situation_ of it all? But statistically, I’m pretty sure that I could’ve run into you… Who knows? Maybe Lance and I would’ve gotten along better if we’d met differently, like with a lot less yelling…”

“For what it’s worth?” Shiro offers, squeezing Keith’s shoulder. “I kinda doubt it. Lance can be a bit much—”

“What, and I _can’t_?” Keith scrubs at his eyes. “Sorry, it’s just… Yeah, Lance is a bit much, but _so am I_.”

“I’m just saying that you and Lance have very different ways of being and doing things, and the two of you…” Shiro runs his fingers through his fringe. “No matter how you met, I feel like you two probably always would’ve had an uphill struggle with each other.”

Despite seeming to think about that, Keith only flops face-first into the lion again, mumbling, “I’m a fucking _idiot_ …”

He sighs when Shiro’s hand starts working through his hair. After a few long moments, with his eyes half-closed and making him look almost peaceful, Keith turns his head so he can more clearly tell Shiro, “For so long, I’ve wanted to be so mad at you. Because I felt like you _left_ me. And I hated myself for being angry with you when I thought you were getting _help_ , but then you were with _him_ , so actually, I’m the one who left _you_ …”

“Given the _Maurice_ aspect of the situation?” Shiro says while Keith’s so quiet, he makes Shiro wonder if he’s done talking. “I feel like we can maybe, I don’t know? Suspend any discussion of either of us leaving each other, back then? I mean, however we felt, it’s not fair on either of us? To phrase it like that?”

“But I missed you like crazy and if I weren’t so _closed off_ from…”

“You were upset, and that’s valid. I _hurt_ you, whether I meant to or not—”

“But I _lov_ —” Keith cuts himself off, and the way one of his hands tightens around the black lion’s leg keeps Shiro from feeling too positively about that unmistakable word, about hearing Keith actually start to say it. God, he wants to let himself enjoy that, but he can’t manage it when Keith is still the very picture of abject despair, and _especially_ not when Keith says, “How can I even _say_ anything like that when I didn’t _try harder_ to find you?”

“You spent two weeks chasing ghosts around Chicago. That’s _hardly_ a lack of effort.” Not that Shiro expects this to reassure Keith any or stop him blaming himself if he feels like he deserves that. So, Shiro has to do what he can to maybe put a pin in it. One last ruffle to Keith’s hair, then he drops his hand to Keith’s shoulder. Squeezes briefly, then slides his palm onto Keith’s back.

“You haven’t been alone in feeling like that?” Shiro tells him, rubbing his fingertips at a tense spot. “Right after you interrupted that one practice, even without any evidence? Even before you texted me and I learned what you’ve been up to? I started coming up with all these ways that I might’ve missed you… Yelling at myself for not doing more to find you again, just going, ‘He has a new number and so do I, and Keith’s better off without me anyway’—”

“Which obviously, I _haven’t_ been,” Keith grumbles into the lion.

“What, like I can _judge_ you for that?”

Keith grumbles and pulls himself up out of the lion so Shiro can _see it_ when he rolls his eyes. “You have a job you don’t need and actually enjoy it, which most of our generation would kill for, by the way. Your band’s doing great and your music’s wonderful. You have a new album coming out soon, right? You’re with Ryou again. You’re over a year sober, and that’s _so good_. You have friends so close, they call themselves a _fam_ —”

“You’re in school,” Shiro points out, kneading at a particularly tight spot in Keith’s shoulders. “You’ve found something you really like studying. You said that your grades are great, which of course they would be. Your advisor wants _you specifically_ to be his new TA. He _asked you_ to apply for that position, even though he isn’t allowed to play favorites. Maybe you’re not a social butterfly, but it’s understandable with what you’ve been through. Maybe you have some walls up, but you and Allura have something _special_ —”

“I’m _miserable_ , Shiro!” Which he says while flushing cherry red and glowering, face contorted like he wishes he were half as angry as he thinks he could be. “I worked my ass off to get what I have and half the time, I don’t even feel like I want it. I’m always waiting for another shoe to drop and ruin everything, but then it does and I get pissed off anyway. I push people away and then wonder why the fuck I’m lonely like it’s not completely obvious. I’m scared and I have _no idea_ what to do about anything because I don’t know _why_ I’m this way and there’s no good reason for it, so maybe I’m just _broken_ … For _fuck’s sakes_ , I just cried on you like a fucking baby because the _elevator_ stopped working—”

“Do you know what I did when the elevator stopped?” Shiro’s voice is so calm that it makes the hair on his own arms prick up on end.

With a shrug he fails to make look casual, Keith hunches around the lion. “Pushed the button?” he says, watching Shiro in a mix of confusion and nerves, like he doesn’t want to get caught off his guard by _anything_. “Cleaned up my mess when you shouldn’t’ve had to? I don’t know?”

“I did those things, yes.” Shiro huffs, tucking all of his loose fringe back, partly to do something with his hands and mostly so Keith can see his face. “But I could only do them because I ran down a mental inventory of the things I’m grateful for today. Which I thought was one of the _stupidest_ things that I’d _ever_ heard in my life, when they made us do it in rehab? I could not believe they wanted to make us addicts sit around and say things like, ‘I’m grateful to be alive, I’m grateful to be here, I’m grateful that I didn’t use’ as if they’re real, actual accomplishments that deserve congratulations. They never felt like that to me…”

He sighs, and God, but it takes effort to keep looking at Keith. Especially when Keith’s going pale and wide-eyed — without any visible signs of recognition, more like he’s seen a ghost and can’t tell what manner of restless spirit it is — while that old, familiar feeling like he’s being a _snitch_ and a _tattletale_ and _the absolute unsalvageable worst_ digs its claws into the inside of Shiro’s stomach, drags them through Shiro’s chest, and makes him feel so certain that he’s going to vomit. But Shiro tightens his hold on his mug. He gives himself a long drink of tea and a few deep breaths that don’t make him feel any steadier. He’s going to get through this, the same way that he got through reading Keith’s essay. If he could live through that, then he can get through opening up like Keith deserves and laying this out in the open.

Moreover, Shiro’s going to look Keith in the eye while doing it, so there can be no mistakes between them.

“It helps, though,” he says. “Even when the things I come up with are, like? ‘I haven’t thought about making myself throw up all night until just now, realizing that I haven’t thought about it all night,’ which is so easy to poke holes in that I have to _talk myself out of doing that_ , most of the time? Going over all the reasons why things aren’t as bad as they feel, or why there’s reason for hope after all… It keeps me grounded when things like that happen, random upsets that I can’t control. Sometimes, it keeps me from drinking. Or purging. Using, or trying to use. Sometimes, it’s a way to end a bad day on a semi-decent note and feel like tomorrow could be better.”

God, this sounds like the opposite of helpful, so Shiro kicks himself into tacking on, “If you’re a _mess_ , Keith? Then I am, too.”

With a heavy sigh, Shiro buries himself in draining his tea. He doesn’t mean to go quiet for long enough to make Keith whisper his name, so quietly and desperately that guilt hits Shiro in the chest and twists like a switchblade. And when that happens, Shiro squeezes Keith’s shoulder and tucks a piece of hair behind his ear. He puts the kettle on again. While it’s heating up, Shiro excuses himself for just a quick second — _“I have a question for you when I get back, and it’s important to me, so please, **please** don’t leave, okay? If you want to come hang around by the bathroom door to keep an eye on me? I don’t mind”_ — partly so he can take a leak.

Mostly, though, it’s so Shiro can splash cold water on his face and whisper to his reflection that he can do this and he will.

The kettle whistles while he’s doing that, and when he hits the kitchen, Keith’s refilling their mugs for them. Shiro squeezes his shoulder en route to the table. He means for that and a, _“Thank you for getting that”_ to be the end of it, the high point of his stop by the counter before they move on to bigger things. But Keith catches Shiro by the wrist and tugs himself to Shiro’s side, leaving his own mug sitting on the counter for the moment.

“I’m not trying to distract you,” he says, looking at Shiro’s neck instead of at his face. “But… thank you. For sharing what you did. I’m sorry if I pushed you—”

“You didn’t. Not really, anyway? I wanted to share it, in case it helped or if maybe it _could_ help—”

“I don’t know if it’ll help or not.” Swallowing thickly, Keith meets his eyes. “I know that I want to kiss you. But I also feel like… That _would_ be me trying to distract you—”

“That’s why I haven’t tried to kiss you, either.” Shiro shrugs and forces his mouth not to curve into a phony smile. “Because I _know_ that I’d be trying to distract both of us, and… Not right now. Maybe later, if you still want to. But question-asking first, if that’s okay?”

Keith nods and reaches up to run his fingers over Shiro’s white fringe. Not a _good_ sign, most likely, but at least he still feels comfortable enough to let himself texture-stim around Shiro, instead of putting himself through Hell and more, trying to hide it. Trying to seem less autistic and more so-called, “normal” for the comfort of people who don’t care about him unless he fits into certain ideas about how he should be and act for them. Even so, comfort aside, Keith and Shiro sit at the table in silence for a few long, dragging moments while Shiro gets his mouth around spitting out the words:

“Did you _mean_ to leave your essay on my laptop? Or did you forget to delete it before I made you turn in last night?”

Keith blinks at Shiro, slack-jawed and frozen like a deer in the headlights, which answers that question.

But before Shiro can chime in again, Keith asks him, “Did you read it?”

Shiro nods. “I don’t want to make excuses for that? I didn’t know if you wanted me to find it or not, but mostly, I was _curious_ —”

“Why did you even come to _dinner_?” Keith yelps. “If you read that garbage?”

“It wasn’t garbage…” Shiro extends a hand toward where the black lion was sitting, but now, Keith’s clutching it to his chest instead. He must _really_ like the texture of its fur. So, Shiro huffs and twines his fringe around his finger, then lets it go. “Yes, it was a first draft, and you wrote a lot of it while sleep-deprived? And as someone who was _there_ for most of the events, I had a different perspective on them? But I thought it was _solid_ —”

“It was _page after page_ of self-indulgent, post-adolescent _whining_.” Curling his legs up on the chair with him, Keith grumbles. He rubs his forehead against the black lion’s mane as he says, “It was a giant, nonsensical _tirade_ , all about how much I fucked up and hurt you, and obviously want someone to feel _bad_ for me because why _else_ would I bother writing about it?”

“Because you had to turn something in for class and nothing else held your interest? Exactly like you told Ryner?” …Except Shiro cringes at how harsh that sounds to him. He holds his hand out and waits for Keith to nod before resting it on his shoulder again. “I didn’t read it as any of that, Keith. I thought it had a lot of potential, with some revisions—”

“But you had a perfect reason not to come to dinner. Why wouldn’t you take it?”

“Because I wanted to go to dinner with you. I wanted to meet Allura in person. I wanted to go do something nice for your birthday, and make it nice for you, no matter how little stock you put in your own birthday…” Gently, Shiro squeezes at Keith’s arm. “I wanted to see you—”

“After everything that I told Ryner?” Keith frowns at Shiro as if he’s a puzzle that refuses to make sense. “Everything I _did to you_?”

Shiro shrugs. “What about everything I did to you?”

“Uh, what _about_ it?” Keith scoffs right back. “What’s your _question_?”

“If you still want to see me after I put you through all that, then why can’t I still want to see you?” That’s probably too vague about his meaning, though, so Shiro quickly clarifies, “If _you_ can feel hurt but still want to see me, then why can’t I feel confused but still want to see you?”

“Well, you obviously _can_ , in that I guess I can’t stop you?”

Even though he shouldn’t, Shiro rolls his eyes. “If I say that I have amends I want to make with you, will you tell me I don’t need to?”

“You said it, not me.” Keith tries to shrug, but mostly he hugs the lion tighter. “But I’m certainly _thinking_ it, so…”

“Well, I disagree with you, but…” Massaging his forehead, Shiro sighs. He drops his arm and looks Keith in the eye to tell him, “I came to dinner for the same reason that I brought you here. The same reason I asked Hunk and Lance to clear out so we could talk.”

_Come on, Shiro, you can do this… After all this time, these three words are the absolute least that he deserves from you… You should’ve told him every day before losing him, right? Those are lyrics that you wrote about him, so are they true or not? Are you going to act like the version of yourself who you want to be, or are you going to dither around and drag this out? The Shiro you want to be wouldn’t keep Keith waiting like this…_

Curling a hand around his elbow, Shiro says, “Keith, I _**love**_ you.”

“Uh, I…” Not that Shiro expected Keith to swoon into his arms or anything, but even considering how much denial both of them have apparently been living in, Shiro definitely didn’t expect for Keith to furrow his brow and say, “…Like as a friend?”

“Is that a trick question?”

As soon as he snaps that out, Shiro groans and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Sorry, I’m sorry Keith…” he says, as gently as he can manage when he wishes that he _could_ physically kick himself for this. “I don’t think that you meant it like that. But I’m feeling like, if I say, ‘Yes,’ then you might not hear me out about the rest? But if I tell you, ‘No,’ then I might confirm the ideas you’ve got that no one really values you, you’re not worth anything, and you don’t matter? Like, if I don’t have any friendship love for you, you might keep feeling like all I ever wanted from you was sex and not that I…?”

Keith scrunches his face at Shiro, then at his mug, then at Shiro again, presumably when his tea does not have answers for him. When he doesn’t say anything, Shiro huffs. “I know, you’re not a person who’d do something that. I don’t really think you meant it like that. But I don’t know, it felt like… Feelings? All discombobulated, and screwed around, and… What a _mess_ —”

“Don’t you hate it when emotions do that? Feel like feelings,” Keith mumbles. But with a sigh, he uncurls one of his legs and nudges his foot into Shiro’s ankle. That almost manages to steady Shiro’s nerves before Keith asks, “What _do_ you want from me, Shiro?”

“I want you to be _okay_? I want you to feel better, more of the time. I want you to smile—”

“Not what you want _for_ me, _Takashi_. What do you want _from_ me.”

Keith doesn’t snap or raise his voice. He doesn’t need to when his glare could cut through diamonds. He doesn’t even need to call Shiro by that name, because he already has Shiro’s attention and he’s already made Shiro’s insides to squirm around like he has eels slithering through his veins. But something flashes across Keith’s eyes as he says, _“Takashi,”_ and somehow, Shiro feels sure that Keith would disagree about how necessary that address is or isn’t.

Trying to affirm Keith has a fair point only makes him narrow his eyes as if he can tell that Shiro’s stalling. Trying to say that he didn’t mean this as a deflection makes Keith arch an eyebrow and take a long, pointed sip of his tea. Something cold and unforgiving wriggles around the pit of his stomach as he refuses to let himself look away from Keith, hissing that Keith probably _can_ tell that he’s being met with stalling tactics because Shiro is definitely stalling. Even though he’s the one who got them here in the first place and even though he knows that Keith deserves better — even though he knows that Keith deserves the _truth_ and at least respect enough to get through this conversation without being held up unnecessarily — Shiro’s _stalling_ like a busted engine.

As he wraps his hands back around his mug, Shiro swallows thickly. He wants to bolt, not going in any particular direction, just running until his legs give out. He wants Keith to scream or throw something, because that would make so much more sense to Shiro than Keith sitting there with his tea, watching quietly, waiting for answers that Shiro has. He wants his voice to give out so he’d have an actual reason for not doing this, instead of sitting here and grasping at straws for what he _should_ say… Shiro’s lungs writhe with every breath he takes, and something tightens in his chest, screaming at him that he _knows_ what to say. So many times before, he’s written out what he needs to say in his lyrics, whether they wound up in a fully realized song or not. But now, after putting some of those songs on Youtube and singing others in front of live crowds, Shiro won’t even suck it up enough to _look at Keith_? Maybe he _should_ go, it might be _better_ —

Recognizing that desire and those feelings, Shiro clenches his hands tighter still around his mug. No, no running, especially not so soon after he swore to Keith that he wouldn’t. However he’s feeling, no matter what’s snaking itself through his lungs right now, Shiro cannot let himself out of this. He _needs_ to speak his piece. Even if it doesn’t clear things up immediately, Shiro read Keith’s essay and it’s only fair to let Keith hear _his_ truth in return. If Shiro were pulling a stunt like this in group or with Ulaz, Mitch, or Robin, then he’d get rightfully called out. In all likelihood, Keith only isn’t doing so aloud because he’s tired, because he’s pushed himself up to his limits, if not further, and on his _birthday_ , all because of Shiro. Because Shiro wanted to meet Allura and _Shiro_ wanted to give Keith a nice day…

Except Shiro also wanted to talk things out, only to end up like this: wilting onto his elbows. Letting his shoulders droop as if he has a heavier burden when he’s the one who dropped all of this on Keith’s lap and Keith would be in the right to get angry with him over that. Clinging to his mug and shutting his eyes while he turns over the snippets of his own lyrics that sprint in and out of his mind. He swallows thickly, blinking at the overhead light’s reflection in his tea. Nothing gets the heavy, sticky feeling dislodged from the inside of his throat. Still, Shiro _needs_ to do this. His hands tremble as he makes himself look back up at Keith and adjusting his posture makes his entire back tense up. His heart’s flailing around too much for Shiro to miss how fast it’s beating, and the mug doesn’t feel warm underneath his palms anymore.

But Keith kicks at his ankle again, and Shiro can’t tell if he’s deliberately being gentle or if Keith doesn’t have the energy to make it hurt. His deep eyes aren’t hollow and they only _appear_ calm. Anyone who’d look at them and miss the glimmer of pain underneath their surface couldn’t claim to know Keith in any way that counts. Worrying his fingers through the lion’s mane, Keith finally drops his chin and stares at the floor instead of at Shiro — _God, I can’t do this to him anymore_ —

Clearing his throat gets Keith’s attention back and before he can try to stop himself, Shiro starts letting his mouth run off: “I want your forgiveness, but only when I’ve really _earned_ it,” he says, hands quivering around his mug as much as his voice does. “I want to do better by you, for as long as you want to let me—”

“Shiro?”

“I want to hold you, however you want and whenever you want me to.” Shiro can feel his throat trying to clamp down around itself and keep him from saying this. Looking at Keith’s pallor and his widened eyes, Shiro doesn’t find the help that he wants, nothing that makes this _easier_. But he’s burning up from not saying anything and Keith’s obvious pain only twists the knife in Shiro’s chest. “I want to kiss you as many times as you want from me—”

“Wait, you’re not really—”

“I _love_ you, Keith. I am _in love_ with you. And I just…” Shiro sighs. Trying to straighten up again only makes his shoulders hunch in further. But he presses on: “I want to write a song about you that you _get_ , for once. Something so clear that you can’t _possibly_ miss how I wrote it for you—”

A halfway-strangled noise wobbles out of Keith’s throat. His eyes glisten, and Shiro’s pretty sure that’s not a mischievous glimmer or some pent-up energy for which Keith desperately needs release. Trying to look at him makes Shiro’s chest feel tight and empty at the same time. Like a void swallowed everything inside him, and now his chest is collapsing in on itself, in some vain hope that he won’t notice the absence. Yet, there’s something warm, too. Something that flares hottest at the thought of getting all of this out in the open between himself and Keith, so each of them finally knows what the other means and where he’s coming from.

“I want to _be with you_ …” Shiro strains to keep his voice from slipping into a whisper. No matter how much he wants to retreat, he _needs_ to finish what he started and he _needs_ to make sure that Keith hears every word. “I want to be someone who can make you _happier_ , or at least make things easier for you, however I can. I want to be someone you’re _proud_ to be with. Someone you’re proud of, generally. I just…”

He hates the crack that sneaks into his voice, but Shiro takes a deep breath and, unsteady as he feels, he keeps looking at Keith. If he needed to, he’d hot-glue his eyes in place because Keith deserves Shiro’s full and undivided attention right now, and Shiro _needs_ to be certain that he’s getting his point across for real. Anything that he can do to make himself clearer, anything he can do to get through to Keith on whatever terms Keith needs from him, anything at all that might get them onto the same page with each other…

“I want to do whatever it takes to show you that I’m in love with you and help you _believe_ it,” he says. “And I don’t want to give up on you again—”

“I never _felt_ like you gave up on me!” Keith snaps as if making himself clear on this point is the most important thing in the universe, right now. His cheeks flush pink and he ducks his chin. “Even when I thought you _left_ , you were one of the only people who never… But I just… And I was _so angry_ , but you…”

He shudders when it sounds like he wants to sigh. He shudders harder, breathing in. “I was _wrong_? This whole time? You really did…”

Shiro nods, then says, “I love you” again when he realizes that Keith isn’t looking up from the table. He mean to wait, because that’s polite and Keith should get a word in edgewise. But when a few moments drag by without Keith saying anything else, Shiro squeezes his shoulder. He says, “I was wrong, too. I couldn’t tell how you felt, and I _wanted_ you to want me? But I felt like, ‘How could Keith ever love a worthless, simpering, pretty boy burnout?’”

Maybe Keith doesn’t remember that those are Maurice’s words, not Shiro’s, but all the same, they make Keith turn his face away from the table. He frowns at Shiro softly, like he wants to be desperate but can’t find the energy. God, he’s had such a long two weeks, but he’s getting through this conversation anyway… Shiro rubs at Keith’s arm and before he knows which way is up, he has Keith’s legs draped over his lap and Keith leaning toward his side. He only stays far enough away to keep watching Shiro, at least when he can manage it. Every time Keith drops his gaze, Shiro fights down the impulse to sigh. Even if he knows it’s coming from concern for Keith, it might not sound that way, and Shiro can’t let himself risk upsetting Keith any further, not tonight.

“I felt like…” Keith says, after a while. “Why would you want to be saddled with a pathetic, broken _mess_?”

“Because I love you.” With a nod of permission, Shiro curls his arm around Keith’s shoulder. He drops his other hand to Keith’s knee as Keith burrows closer into Shiro’s embrace. “I don’t see you that way, and I wouldn’t be _saddled_ with you. If you ever wanted to be with me, then I’d be proudly yours.”

“Of course I want to _be with you_ , didn’t we just…” Although he doesn’t frown, Keith’s sigh comes out heavily and he gives Shiro a look like crying would exhaust him too much right now. “…You’re not really saying that for _my_ benefit, are you? Constantly checking if I consent or not, that’s… It’s more for _you_ , right?”

“Ulaz suggested the technique that started it. To help me get better at insisting on, ‘No’ when I don’t want…” Huffing softly, Shiro nudges his forehead against Keith’s. It makes Keith whine, but he leans into the touch all the same, and he nods as Shiro tells him, “But thank you for being so concerned. About whether or not I’m, I don’t know? Trying to prove that you aren’t really interested, or don’t really want me in your life, or… Whatever other _ridiculous_ alternative explanations I could come up with?”

“As long as you remember they’re ridiculous…”

“Some days are better than others. But I swear, I’m working on it.”

“Can I stay tonight?” Soft though his voice is, Keith almost blurts it out. He pulls back enough to let Shiro see his whole face as Keith fights to keep his eyes trained on Shiro. “I’m not… I don’t feel like doing anything stupid, and I don’t feel like you do, either? I just…” He splays his fingers over the hand on his knee. “I don’t want to be alone tonight?”

“Then you won’t be,” Shiro promises without needing to think about it.

He’ll need to text Hunk and Lance, letting them know they can come back again and to expect a guest. But as Keith nestles closer and gets comfortable, leaning on Shiro’s shoulder, something else needs to be said as well: “I’m sorry. For reading your essay behind your back. Not for reading it in general, but…”

Shiro huffs, nuzzling may Keith’s hair. “Whatever I can do to make that up to you, or make things square? Let me know, and I’ll do it.”

Keith nods and leans on Shiro just a bit more. “Right now, all I want is to drink some water, eat a cupcake, and fall asleep in your arms.”

Cuddling Keith closer, Shiro whispers, “As you wish.”

Which makes Keith snort against Shiro’s neck. “If you’re gonna sweet-talk me like that, I’m gonna make you watch _The Princess Bride_.”

Kissing Keith’s forehead, Shiro repeats those three words and smiles, even though it’s small. He can’t help it and wouldn’t want to, if he could. Because things might not be perfect, and they may yet have their work cut out for them, but finally, Keith knows that when Shiro tells him, _“As you wish,”_ the subtext of, _“I love you”_ absolutely is intentional.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> —And then there were a million words of domestic fluffy shenanigans, the next chapter had smut, and everyone was happy forever.
> 
> ………Yeah, no, I’m sorry for my atrocious sense of humor but that’s not going to happen. I mean, the next chapter is going to be relatively lighter, nicer fare (guest-starring Slav and the number that he does on Shiro’s patience, among other characters), but oh man, no. These boys still have a lot of work to do. Even then, they probably won’t get to most people’s definition of fluffy, because I’m mean and pretty much everything I touch is at least mild hurt/comfort. ~~Also, I know when the smut is coming and it’s not for a couple chapters, yet.~~ …I’m sorry? ♡
> 
> But hey, see? They’re working on things, just like I said? That’s a good thing, right? ……Okay, I’ll escort myself out now and hopefully see y’all back next time. ♡


	13. The Confessions of Takashi Shirogane

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> —Ahahaha, here we are again, with another chapter split brought to you by, “idk, it just felt like linking this up with the rest of the planned action in the chapter was a bit disjointed, so emotionally, it made more sense to split things up.”
> 
> Also, a little bit brought to you by, “Family drama sucks, I wanted to post something so it’d feel more like I’d accomplished something other than worrying about IRL things that I can’t actually do anything to help with” and, “Most of the writing I’ve done in the past week has been for grad school, rather than in fun, and again, I wanted to feel like I finished something.”
> 
> More importantly, though, **a content note for this chapter:** there is a scene in here that is not entirely a flashback or a hallucination, but you know that thing where sometimes, you imagine confrontations with people, or the other thing where certain feelings you might experience remind you so much of someone in your life that it’s almost like you’re dealing with that person, even though they aren’t there?
> 
> In the middle of an anxiety-spiral, Shiro has a moment like that and the person that his mind conjures up is Sendak. The overall moment is somewhat dissociative for him, but he manages to ground himself. The back-and-forth is very much inspired by the Shiro/Sendak parts in “Crystal Venom,” and contains, among other things: gaslighting, victim-blaming, emotional/psychological abuse, references to physical abuse, and references to a past suicide attempt. There are also mentions of Shiro wanting to make himself sick on purpose, but he doesn’t do so.
> 
> There is also a scene later on, where Shiro shares some of the feelings that he described to Hunk and Lance as, “addict stuff” back in chapter 11, and it deals with several of these same points.

After the kind of Monday that they had between the two of them, Shiro really shouldn’t be surprised when Lance drops into the bookstore on Tuesday, roundabout lunchtime. Friends look out for each other, that’s part of how it works. Maybe Lance and Hunk didn’t want to talk about why the two of them showed up back at the apartment almost immediately after Shiro texted them that he and Keith were done talking, looking _exhausted_ if not exactly upset — but it doesn’t take an actual genius to put it together that neither of them was feeling too hot at that moment. Hunk was weirdly subdued about checking in the kitchen to make sure Keith and Shiro were doing relatively okay, then sulked off to his room and didn’t let anyone see him until got up extra-early to stress-cook his way through breakfast and to insist on making Keith lunch again.

Lancey-Lance was, if anything, an even stranger story. He made himself a cup of tea, then asked if Keith and Shiro minded him sitting with them. That, in and of itself, didn’t need to mean much of anything, because Lance would almost always rather be around people than not, more so when he isn’t feeling all that well. But he didn’t make any cracks at Keith, not even something gentler and more amusing, like asking if he meant to kidnap Shiro’s lion or if he planned to make Shiro bridal-carry him to bed and that’s why he’d reclined on Shiro’s shoulder and tossed his legs over Shiro’s lap. There were no jibes at Keith about his haircut, no suspicious narrowing of the eyes or arching of brows when Keith absentmindedly nuzzled and kissed at Shiro’s neck, no squawking about how the two of them sure looked close and cuddly for two guys who are nominally trying to take things slow. Hell, Lance asked if Keith _minded_ hearing someone tell him, _“Happy Birthday”_ again before saying it and gave Shiro the distinct impression that he would’ve kept it to himself, had Keith asked for that.

Not that Shiro wants to look it in the mouth when two of his favorite people are tolerating each other so well, but Keith and Lance managed to get through comparing notes on their favorite Disney and/or Pixar movies ( _Aladdin, Mulan, The Emperor’s New Groove_ , and _Monsters Inc._ for Lance; _The Lion King, The Little Mermaid, The Black Cauldron_ , and _Toy Story_ for Keith) without trading insults. Maybe they both got in on making fun of how Shiro has yet to get over his kiddie-crush on Prince Phillip from _Sleeping Beauty_ , but it was low-energy and even-tempered, and they didn’t pick on each other which is really the important thing, here. Moreover, they traded notes on their respective favorite Mountain Goats albums (Keith picks _Tallahassee_ and _Heretic Pride_ , Lance picks _Transcendental Youth_ and _The Life of the World to Come_ , they see more or less eye-to-eye about _The Sunset Tree_ ), and neither of them got terribly riled up about the other one having different opinions. The worst it got was Lance’s brief moment of upset over how _Goths_ has been out since May and Keith hasn’t gotten the chance to listen to it yet, which wasn’t upset at Keith so much as at circumstances that Lance dislikes.

Clearly, something was up with Lance last night. Given how pensive Lance seemed about everything this morning, and the way he kept looking at Hunk and sighing while Hunk wasn’t paying attention, it’s pretty obvious that Lance could use some extra attention. Obvious enough that Shiro spends most of the morning wondering if he should swing down to the record store to take Lance out for lunch. Even though things with Keith and Allura went more positively than not, Shiro doesn’t imagine that he looks too much better to an experienced eye like Lance’s. He has no room to be surprised when Lance swans into the bookstore, early Tuesday afternoon.

But still, Shiro startles slightly, when the door slams open and the attached bell clangs instead of jingling sweetly. One of his hands clings harder to the ladder he’s on while the other tightens its hold on the small stack of books that Shiro’s meant to be shelving, and he only sighs in relief when he hears that oh-so-familiar tenor belt, “ _I’ve been hearin’ your heartbeat inside of me! I keep your photograph beside my bed!_ ”

“Hello to you, too, Sir Lancelot,” sighs Mr. Phalen, sitting beside the cash register. Without looking up from his weathered paperback copy of _And The Band Played On_ , he waves Lance off in Shiro’s direction.

All Lance gives Shiro’s boss by way of greeting is a quick little nod. As he bounds down the aisle toward Shiro, bouncing with pent-up energy like a seven-year-old who just can’t wait for recess, he keeps singing, “ _Livin’ in a world of faaaantasies! I can’t get you outta my head!_ ”

“ _Ohhhh, I remember the way that we touch, I wish I didn’t liiiiiike it so muuuuuuch_ ,” Shiro joins in with a smirk, sliding a copy of _1984_ onto the shelf between an annotated collection of the Nag Hammadi scriptures and a copy of the script for _Into the Woods_. He shoves a copy of _The Wind Done Gone_ onto the shelf below, right between _Bob Dylan and Philosophy_ and a hardback anniversary edition of _Watchmen_.

Slumping against the shelf by Shiro’s ladder, Lance sings up at him, “ _I get sooooooo emotional, baby!_ ”

Shiro answers, “ _Every tiiiiiime I thiiiiink of yoooooooou…_ ”

“ _I get so emotional, baby,_ ” they sing together, as Shiro haphazardly sticks the rest of his books in wherever he can find enough free space for them. “ _Ain’t it shocking what! Love can dooooo?_ ”

“ _Ain’t it shockin’ what your love can dooooo…_ ” Shiro warbles, hopping down from his perch. Booping Lance on the nose, he smiles (probably on the smaller side, but still: it’s hard not to smile when Lance scrunches his face like an irritated kitten) and ventures a guess that takes barely any deductive effort, “So, lunch?”

“Noooo, of course not,” Lance deadpans, with a playful smirk. Even so, he trails after Shiro, telling him, “Yeah, no, I just happened to show up at the bookstore around lunchtime, with a mind to bug you, ‘cause I’m thinking of starting a Whitney Houston-themed singing telegram business on the side. But I didn’t wanna hear constructive criticism about it right now, so I brought it to you instead of Pidge. Plus, she can’t harmonize with me like you can.”

“That is hardly mutually exclusive with making him take his lunch-break,” Mr. Phalen points out, still ostensibly wrapped up in his reading. He pulls himself out of it only briefly, in the name of waving them toward the door with one of his enigmatic little maybe-smiles and a call of, “Do be certain that he relaxes, Sir Lancelot. Work whatever unique magics you have available to you.”

Which is hardly the oddest thing Lance has ever heard from Mr. Phalen, but when they hit the sidewalk, he still sighs and tells Shiro, “Your boss is _weird_.”

“He prefers the term, ‘eccentric,’” Shiro says with a shrug. “So, what’re you in the mood for?”

The answer to that probably involves more casual debate and meandering than necessary, but all the same, they end up in a booth at the Blue Mermaid, Lance’s favorite diner, with Lance sinking so far in his seat that his long legs splay out and keep nudging into Shiro’s, even when he tries to avoid that. Surrounded by the turquoise-painted walls and gauzy, navy drapes around the window by their seat, Lance seems oddly deflated. He doesn’t look around or point out which of the other patrons he thinks are cute. He doesn’t fixate on any of the tacky claptrap pictures of unfairly beautiful merfolk in various states of near-undress or make saucy comments about them. He doesn’t even flirt with Florona, the pretty, redhead waitress who greets them by name and asks if they want their usual order for drinks. The fact that she’s dating Plaxum has never stopped Lance from grinning and throwing out pickup lines at either of them before.

About the only thing that _doesn’t_ strike Shiro as an obvious cry for help is that Lance bobs his head and one of his feet when, “Uptown Funk” comes on the speakers. He joins Shiro in singing along for the first verse and the chorus, only stopping when Florona swings back to take their lunch order. Except that show of typical Lancey-Lance behavior would be more reassuring if Lance would give Shiro more than a shrug when he asks if Lance wants an order of garlic knots, then puts it in. As Florona bounces back toward the kitchen, Shiro clinks the ice cubes in his Diet Coke and tries to think of the best way to go, _“Buddy, you don’t seem to be doing so hot, what’s up,”_ one that will make Lance feel appreciated but not like he’s being put under a microscope. But before Shiro can ask Lance anything, Lance’s knee knocks into his.

“ _Soooo_ …” Lance drawls, almost getting halfway to his usual level of smirking. “Things went well with Keith last night, huh?”

“Eh, I mean, I think so?”

“Oh my _God_ , Shirito, if you try to deny the way he was cuddling up to you in the kitchen—”

“Fair concern, but not what I’m talking about.” As he tucks his white fringe behind his ear, Shiro allows himself a sigh. “Things went well on that front, yes. I want to be with him, he wants to be with me, he _asked_ to stay over instead of making me ask him not to go, but…”

“But _nothing_!” Lance moans half-heartedly, like he can’t find the energy for more of a calling-out. “You totally love each other and everything’s happy now, right?”

“You were right before, actually. About Keith having more problems than a boyfriend can fix. Not that I thought you _weren’t_ , after reading his essay, but…” Shiro shrugs, and it makes him feel like he isn’t taking this seriously enough, even as he admits, “We aren’t remotely out of the woods about that part, yet. We’re at the stage where we’ve got trees everywhere, princesses flitting about with their animal friends, a Big Bad Wolf or five, Little Red skipping to her Grandmother’s, and Stephen Sondheim writing our lyrics — and it’s a huge deal that Keith’s even _acknowledged_ that we are, in fact, in the woods.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not saying that’s not rough or anything because it is and I’m sorry?” Huffing softly, Lance nudges a knee against Shiro’s thigh and tries to smile. “But can either of us really _judge_ him for that?”

“I’m not judging, I’m just saying. Any mixed feelings about last night are mostly because I’m still worried about him.” It takes effort not to let himself smile as he rubs his leg against Lance’s and looks him in the eye. “What about you, hmm? What’s up for Lancey-Lance?”

Lance takes a deep breath and gently knocks his head against the booth’s cushioning. Overtop of the Britney Spears that’s on the speakers now, he warbles, “ _I need a man who’ll take a chance on a love that burns hot enough to last, but when the night falls, my lonely heart calls…_ ”

Hugging himself, Lance adds on, “Hasn’t even been twenty-four hours since I agreed to be patient and it’s already _hard_ …”

That’s _some_ manner of progress for them, technically. But it’s still not really clear enough, as answers go, so Shiro slouches onto his elbows. Maybe getting closer to Lance’s current eye-line, seeming slightly less tall, and leaning toward him will make him feel more comfortable. There’s no guarantee here, since Lance usually _doesn’t_ get awkward or intimidated by other people’s heights, least of all Shiro’s. It could be an unconscious addition to his discomfort, though, and whatever Shiro can do that might help, it’s worth the effort.

He keeps his voice gentle as he points out, “You and Hunk got home pretty quick last night.”

“Yeah, you and Mighty Mullet took your sweet time of things. We were hanging out at Matt and Pidge’s place by then, and she was almost done handing me my ass in _Killbot Phantasm: Skirmishers_ …” Lance whines, but without much intent behind it. At least he doesn’t give Shiro too much time to worry about what manner of whining is going on before jumping in to clarify, “We talked. Me and Hunk. After we got dinner last night, out at Rover’s park? And I kissed him?”

Oh, boy. Well, that could potentially explain a lot.

Trying not to straighten up too much or go sprinting for the nearest conclusion that looks appealing, Shiro nods. Clearly, _something_ went on with that conversation — and it’d do a good job of explaining why Hunk and Lance have _both_ seemed off since last night — but Shiro only folds his hands and bids Lance to go on, if he wants to talk about it. Which earns him a furrowed brow and an exasperated half-sneer, stuck somewhere between, _“Man, of course I want to talk, why would you ever think that I wouldn’t?”_ and, _“Please don’t make me, Shirito, this whole thing sucks harder than either of us in a room full of dick.”_

Fair enough, for all it makes Shiro sigh and leaves him wondering if an attempted smile would put Lance’s mind at ease, or if it’d only make him feel worse.

Waiting isn’t getting them anywhere, though, so Shiro tries, “How’d it go? Or what was the kiss like? Your pick.”

“The kiss was, like… We were gossiping about you and Keith, then Hunk says one thing about you two assuming stuff, and I’m so super-tense, I feel like he does when you even _say_ the word, ‘roller coaster’…” Another sigh. Giving up on letting his legs go wherever they fall, Lance shifts both of them between Shiro’s and nudges his knees into Shiro’s.

Although Lance manages a small smile, it looks like a mild breeze could knock it over and he starts wringing his hands like it’s taking a superhuman amount of effort not to crack his knuckles. “But, like? The kiss itself was just… Really nice? Mostly. Tension aside, I mean? He was warm, and his mouth still tasted like that last little lingering bit of cookie dough ice cream, and my whole body felt like it was full of cotton-candy and fireworks? And it sort of took him a moment to kiss _back_ , but I mean, I didn’t really _plan_ on kissing him, either? Not saying it was accidental, since it wasn’t, but…”

There shouldn’t be any lower for Lance to sink in his booth, but he finds a way. “Then there was the talking, and I didn’t make any jokes about stuff or use any of my best lines, and I _wanted_ to but it was like I couldn’t remember any and nothing really seemed like it was funny, and just… I dunno, man?”

“Feelings are hard and love is messy?” Shiro suggests, dropping one of his hands to squeeze Lance’s knee.

“Hunk doesn’t even _know_ how he feels, and okay, I agreed to give him time because that’s _fair_ , but like?” This time, the whining has _some_ energy behind it and as he lets that noise out, Lance manages to sit up a bit straighter. Not by much but progress is progress and Shiro will take it. But Lance still looks downright miserable as he asks, “Is it weird that I think I’d feel better if he just rejected me outright? That feels pretty weird to me but it’s still what I’m feeling?”

Shiro doesn’t think that it sounds terribly weird. “Rejection would suck, but at least it’s certain, right?”

“Yeah, I mean… Man, I don’t even _know_.”

The slouching returns with a vengeance as Lance says that. Lance heaves a sigh like he could find a way to be the picture of abject despair while listening to, “Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go” — which shouldn’t even be humanly _possible_ , if you ask either him or Shiro. Trying to force a smile first ends in Lance shaking his head and tossing his hair around, not entirely unlike Rover after he’s been dragged through bath-time. That, in turn, only leads to Lance groaning and combing one hand through his hair again while the other one holds up the back of a spoon as a makeshift mirror. Why he still bothers trying to fake a smile, Shiro doesn’t want to guess. For one thing, he has ideas but he might be wrong, thus rendering them unhelpful at the moment. But more importantly, guessing might give Shiro a chance to judge Lance when he’s got no right to do so. No matter how much effort strains at his lips, more than anything else, Lance looks like he needs a hug.

When Shiro puts that offer out there, all Lance can do is nod and make a limp gesture like he’s grabbing at Shiro. That’s all the sign that Shiro needs; he doesn’t hesitate, just swoops over to be there for his Sharpshooter in the way that Lance wants most from him right now. As soon as Lance has Shiro on his side of the table, Shiro has Lance’s head on his shoulder and Lance burrowing into his side with a disconsolate sigh. They sit like that in silence, for long enough that Florona comes over with the plate of garlic knots and a refill on Lance’s Cherry Coke. While they have her here, though, Shiro manages a small, tight smile and asks if they could please put in an order for two milkshakes, whenever she gets a chance: a double-chocolate one with extra whip, and a strawberry one. As she heads off again, Lance clings at Shiro even harder, not too much or anything, but definitely enough to let Shiro know there’s something on Lance’s mind.

“Thanks for that,” he mumbles, nuzzling against Shiro’s shoulder. “But you’re not gonna, like? Not that I’m arguing or anything? With the milkshake, I mean, because I’m not and if you want one, then dude, have one, but?” A tight squeeze, with a lackluster whine. “If you’re just doing it ‘cause of me, you’re not gonna take it out on _yourself_ later, are you?”

“I solemnly swear on the fact that I love you: I will not take having a strawberry milkshake out on myself later,” Shiro says and kisses Lance’s forehead. “I don’t know, I was only going to order yours, but… I got an impulse. It sounded like a good idea. I went with it. But thanks for looking out for me.”

Lance agrees that this sounds okay to him and that he’ll keep looking out for Shiro in a natural darkness preserve with a bag over his head because that’s what friends are for. But now that he’s apparently feeling safer, he manages to admit, “I just want to be with Hunk _so much_? But I don’t wanna _push_ him or anything? And I wanna let him sort out his feelings, but I wanna know what they _are_ or how that’s going or _something_? But then what if asking him about it pushes one way or the other? _Ugggggh_ …”

“I mean, he’s never gonna sort anything out in a vacuum, and there will always be influences that we don’t quite—”

“ _Bonito_ , is this gonna turn into something philosophically heavy? Because I so can’t do that today.”

“I’ll try not to let it?” For whatever it’s worth, Shiro curls his arm tighter around Lance’s shoulders and gives himself a moment to think about word-choice before just saying, “People influence each other all the time. Whether we mean to or not, whether we’re aware of it or not. And there’s all kinds of things that feed into stuff like that. So, there’s no way that Hunk can perfectly sort out his feelings, entirely free from outside influence, and really? If he even tried it, that’d be worse on him than whether or not he accounts for _your_ feelings while trying to put his own together.”

“Are you trying to tell me to chill out?” Lance sighs, picking up his head without pulling away. He’s probably narrowing his eyes in a way that’s _meant_ to be intimidating or at least convey just how little he’s enjoying this current thread in the conversation.

But since he won’t let Shiro wriggle away enough to get a better look at him, Shiro has to go based on Lance’s tone as he guesses, “Like, you’re telling me that it’s probably fine, as long as I’m not out here, like, I dunno? Rubbing Hunk’s face in how I feel or getting all _Lotor_ about going, ‘But, baby, I love you, that totally makes what I’m doing okay even though it’s _not_ ’? ‘Cause that would not be a good look, but… All that stuff you said about influences?”

Shiro nods and rubs at Lance’s bicep. “The waiting’s gonna suck and I won’t pretend otherwise? But if you clam up or get overly careful about things with him, then that’ll influence him, too. And there _is_ no reliable way to predict how he might react to anything you might do, so… As much as the waiting is going to _suck_ for you? All you can do is trust Hunk and let him have his time. It was considerate of you to agree to that, and obviously, I can’t say for him exactly? But if I were in Hunk’s shoes, I’d really appreciate that you did.”

With a shrug, Lance wilts back into Shiro’s shoulder. “What, like it was hard?” he whispers. “I mean, the waiting is? The waiting is so hard, you could put it in a crappy porno and no one would know it _wasn’t_ some guy’s cock. But I love the big dorky genius, so what _else_ was I gonna do?”

“Not everyone would’ve given Hunk time like that, Lance. Maybe the world _shouldn’t_ be that way, but it’s still true, and just…” Another kiss on Lance’s forehead, and Shiro tells him, “For whatever it’s worth? I love you, and I’m glad that you talked to him openly and told him how you feel. It took a lot of nerve and integrity to put everything out there and make yourself vulnerable like that. I know how hard it’s been for you to get there, and I’m proud of you for that.”

In all likelihood, the throaty little noise Lance makes means that he has something to say. But before Shiro lets himself reconsider, he says, “Hey, do you wanna take lead vocals on, ‘I Love You, Man’? If you want to keep it on our set-list for Battle of the Bands, I mean?”

“We probably _should_ keep it, whatever happens with me and Hunk… We’ve got it down really well and it’s a total crowd-pleaser…” Except Lance sounds like he’s pondering advanced calculus and can’t make heads or tails of anything. He loosens his hold on Shiro enough to sit up properly and knots his brow, glancing around them like he’s trying to figure out where the hidden camera is.

When he finally settles back on Shiro, Lance says, “D’you really think I should take lead on it, though? I mean, we’ve _always_ played it with _you_ singing lead?”

“But you did the musical legwork and they’re _your_ lyrics.” Shiro smiles easily and gives Lance a squeeze that he hopes is reassuring. “You put yourself out there for Hunk, didn’t you? Why not let people hear your song in your own voice? We could even make that our new default way of playing it, if you wanted.”

“I’ll think about it,” Lance says, just a bit too quickly.

Not that Shiro can blame him for wrapping things up without resolving them, not when Florona’s right there, the next second, carrying out their lunches and respective milkshakes. At Lance’s insistence, Shiro stays on the same side of the booth, letting Lance lean on him without hugging back but only in the name of eating. Switching back to small talk — today, Lance’s perpetually annoying hipster customer with his fondness for movie soundtracks and inability (or perhaps refusal) to understand the word, “No” decided to make a nuisance of himself over finding the score that Philip Glass composed for Tod Browning’s _Dracula_ — comes as an unquestioned shift, so Shiro can focus and better mind his emotions and behaviors, the way he struggles to do if the conversation runs too emotionally hot.

But as things start winding down and their plates start looking emptier, a thought nags at the back of Shiro’s mind, rustling and pricking at him every time his ponytail brushes against his neck. It hisses at him that there’s an imbalance here, that Lance opened up a good deal more than Shiro did. For starters, Lance actually provided details about his talk with Hunk. Poking a fry at his ketchup, Shiro sighs. As Lance scoots away from his side, Shiro forces himself not to cringe. Lance hums without any _obvious_ expectation, but he’s narrowing his eyes in a way that makes Shiro’s shoulders tense up and sets his skin crawling.

“Last night, I told Keith,” he starts, but trails off until Lance bats at his elbow. “I told him a lot of things?”

“I swear, _bonito_ ,” Lance groans. “If you told him you wanna be with him without telling that walking, talking mess how much you love him—”

“That was one of the things I told him, yeah. Had to drag it out of myself and took the long way around, but I got it said…” Huffing, Shiro tucks his fringe back behind his ear. “I guess I have some mixed feelings about some of what I said? Like, I told him about some of my newer issues, and recovery, how it’s going, generally speaking? Which is mixed enough already—”

“Because of the opening up part sucking, even if it helps?”

Shiro nods and idly scrubs at the scar on his face. “Then I came up with, ‘I think we should stop saying either of us left the other back in Chicago, because of Maurice’s involvement,’” he says. “Which feels, I don’t know, _hypocritical_ in retrospect? Because he _was_ an extenuating circumstance in human form, sure. But I was saying that I’d left Keith, the same as him saying he’d left me. But I don’t know, something clicked in my head, one time he started getting down on himself for feeling like he’d left me, and… I don’t know?”

With a shrug and a noncommittal quirk of his lips, Shiro tells Lance, “I still feel like I believe it, on the other side of that conversation? Like it was a good idea to say it and the whole, ‘Who left whom, we got separated so clearly, one of us _must_ have left’ thing is something we should do away with? But then another part of me also still feels like I abandoned him?”

“I dunno, man,” Lance says, after a moment of leg-bobbing and consideration, which only isn’t silent because he spends it tapping out the _Super Mario Bros._ theme music on the table. “That just sounds like you developing a new opinion, to me. Which is _fair_ because you’re a person, you aren’t _static_ or whatever. And maybe you’re having mixed up feelings, but feelings are always funny like that and I mean? You’re doing crazy-good with yours, today? Like, ‘Mark it down in your diary and tell Ulaz about it on Thursday ‘cause this is a big deal, and you deserve to hear it from someone else besides me. Or in addition to me, or whatever.’”

“That doesn’t mean I don’t _like_ hearing it from you,” says Shiro, giving Lance a smile. “Thanks, Sharpshooter.”

“Any time, _hermano_. What else is a ragtag fam of misfits for, right?”

Grinning, Lance holds up a fist. He beams when Shiro not only bumps it, but blows it up with him, waggling their fingers at each other in a limp, half-tangled mess. When he finally slumps back into the booth, Lance folds his arms up and says, “Look at us, getting our shit together like badasses. I feel like I could go _mano a mano_ with Lotor’s dad right now, we’re so on top of it. Lemme at him, I wanna go.”

It’s a struggle for Shiro not to sigh again or roll his eyes. Since he manages that, though, he lets himself tell Lance, “I know you’re being hyperbolic, but Zarkon is taller and bigger than Maurice. He _would_ fight back, he _would_ thrash you, and then he would make sure _you_ were the only one taking an assault collar. So, personally, and speaking as someone who loves you? I’d rather you didn’t try anything like that with him.”

Lest Shiro kill Lance’s buzz too much, though, he nudges Lance’s shoulder. “I guess we are doing pretty okay, huh?”

“Uh, how about we’re doing pretty _awesome_?” Lance drawls and bumps back against Shiro until he gets an agreement. Swiping a fry along the inside of his milkshake glass and covering it in the lingering hints of chocolate, he adds, “Let’s try to keep it going, though, right? Don’t wanna our lose momentum when we’re both getting on a good roll for once?”

“Definitely not. Maybe it’s _never_ gonna be painless or straightforward? It’s draining, and hard, and sometimes humiliating, and it _sucks_ when things get like that. Winning against Zarkon in a one-on-one fight might even be _easier_ … But it’s worth it, right, so…” As if it helps make his point, Shiro grabs at his own shake, still half-full. “I’m not giving up that fight—”

He could’ve kept going. But Lance knocks the wind out of Shiro’s speech, all by dropping his head onto Shiro’s shoulder. He fumbles about it, but manages to grab up Shiro’s hand and squeezes. He clasps both of his around Shiro’s one, tightly but not too much, like Lance can’t decide whether he wants to cling, offer moral support, or wrap Shiro up in some protective cocoon and finds that holding Shiro’s hand like this is the next-best option.

“I love you too, man,” Lance says. “And just so there’s no doubts? I am _so proud_ of you.”

*** * ***

Walking Shiro back to the bookstore after lunch, Lance seems to be in somewhat better spirits, albeit still sitting on _something_ that he wants to say. At least he doesn’t keep it to himself for long. Before he lets Shiro get back to work like the adults that they nominally are, Lance hugs him so tightly around the shoulders that it almost gets uncomfortable and asks if Shiro wants to get dinner together before his Tuesday night A.A., or if he wants to meet up after. The promise of a text when Shiro’s meeting gets out makes Lance nod without relaxing, and he presses his face into the curve where Shiro’s neck starts to meet his shoulder.

“Don’t forget to talk to Mitch and Robin tonight, _bonito_?” he murmurs. “About your addict stuff?”

Shiro nudges at Lance until he lifts his head. Nudging their foreheads together, Shiro promises that he will. “It might mean you end up waiting outside our room for a while, if we don’t get to it until after,” he says. “But if that happens, I’ll buy you ice cream or something, okay—”

“If it happens, you won’t have _anything_ to apologize for.” Lance pulls back so Shiro can make no mistakes about the way he’s setting his jaw and steeling himself, or about exactly how much business Lance means right now. “I’ll wait all freaking night as long as you talk to someone who can help you with that.”

Shiro nods, but before he can verbally agree, Lance snarks, “But I _do_ reserve the right to drink your pumpkin spice latte if I finish mine.” 

That gets a laugh out of Shiro, which makes Lance smile, and they hug again before Lance has to scamper back to the record store. All of which is reassuring, as much as anything can be when they’re talking about A.A. or anything remotely A.A. adjacent. After nearly four years of going to meetings more or less regularly, Shiro wishes that they felt any easier, but all they’ve gotten for him is habitual.

Worse yet, whenever individual meetings _have_ started feeling easy — not simply an easier challenge than some days, but genuinely like how picnics are supposed to feel for most people — it’s happened when Shiro needed to be paying better mind to _something_ going on in his life, or going on with his feelings or _something_ about who even knew what, and he wasn’t. Slip-ups followed almost every time, and then the guilt, and then the thought that he no doubt couldn’t show his face at meetings again, no matter how many times he’d heard someone else confess to falling off the wagon.

Sometimes, as he sees the bookstore’s clock winding down or the numbers ticking away on his phone, Shiro still gets that obnoxiously self-insistent feeling in the pit of his stomach, the one that pricks up along his insides and hisses that he’s doing fine, so he doesn’t need to go tonight. It worms around, trying to snake up his throat and then inviting a twin to twist itself up around his lungs. Both of them leave Shiro feeling, at best, like he has an itch that he can’t pin down, much less scratch to his satisfaction.

At worst, he feels like he’s got Maurice’s bulging arms curling around his shoulders like a hangman’s noose while Maurice rubs against his back, or like he has Maurice’s huge, thick hand caressing his cheek or brushing along the back of his neck, never letting Shiro forget who he belonged to or how Maurice could always _choose_ not to be so gentle, how he could always clamp down on Shiro’s jaw or choke him instead of giving him this tenderness laced with poison, and how Shiro should’ve considered himself so lucky that Maurice ever deigned to take pity on him, out of some compassion that Shiro insisted on testing at every available opportunity, some misguided concern for a simpering, good-for-nothing, pretty boy burnout who’s a monster deep down inside, the same as Maurice and Haxus, and who’d never be happy until he accepted that Maurice knew best for him, knew how to recognize another monster—

_But he was wrong_ , Shiro tells himself in a mental voice that sounds like an equal mix of things he’s heard from Ryou, their Dad, Ulaz, Keith, and Lance. He’s shelving the books he didn’t get put away before heading out to lunch, and he is not going to let this get him down. _Maurice didn’t own me, and that’s **not** compassion, how he treated me. Whatever he says he felt for me, whatever he really felt, whatever I felt for him, it excuses nothing that he did. I’m not a monster. I deserve better. Maurice was **wrong**._

Despite catching himself thinking like that today, Shiro feels like he’s overall falling somewhere off from the center of that spectrum, angling toward the less poisonous end. Could be a lot better, but it could be a lot worse as well. The old cigarette burns on his chest tingle without itching, and he feels like he has insects crawling underneath the letters he has tattooed on the insides of his arms. But Shiro starts quelling that sensation as he rolls back his sleeves and frowns at the Serenity Prayer on his left-hand side ( _“Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference”_ ).

The squirming stops entirely when Shiro gently scratches at the lyrics on his right ( _“Hard to see the light now, just don’t let it go. Things will come out right, now. We can make it so. Someone is on your side. No one is alone”_ — he wanted a Disney line to match Ryou’s quote from _Lilo and Stitch_ , but when push finally shoved, _Into the Woods_ seemed so much more appropriate).

Except clearing that up with himself doesn’t cut Shiro loose from the nagging his addict-brain throws at him.

_Really, what could it hurt if you skipped_ , that uncomfortably familiar feeling tells him, about an hour-and-a-half before he needs to leave.

Recognizing the tightness in his chest and the tingle in the back of his throat, Shiro ducks into the back-room. As he fills up a paper cup at the sink, he tries to ignore the hissing in his head that says, _Why is this meeting really necessary? It’s only the one, you can just go back next week if you really need to, or participate extra at Friday night N.A. It can’t hurt if you miss tonight and Lance would never need to know_ —

Shaking his head, Shiro unpockets his bottle of Xanax and cracks it open. He breaks one of the little orange tablets into a slightly-under-half-sized dose and bristles at the feeling like Maurice’s hand squeezing just a hair too hard at the place where Shiro’s neck starts to curve into his shoulder, the feeling like Maurice cackling with his breath hot and thick and heavy right up against Shiro’s ear. Taking deep, slow breaths, Shiro braces himself, palms pressed against the counter and his half-pill pinched between his right thumb and forefinger. He doesn’t dig his hands into the sharp edge, though. All he does is let his head droop and focus on his breathing.

With a vengeance, the addict-brained impulse sniggers at him and it feels like having the back of Maurice’s werewolf-hairy hand ghosting down his spine. That mental-voice growls in the same way that he would, and it sounds exactly like his as it whispers, _Who do you think you’re fooling, Takashi? What makes you think that any of these efforts will amount to anything? You can’t fight the truth inside your heart forever. Why do you keep running from it like you ran away from Chicago, when you could simply embrace it?_

“Because it isn’t true,” Shiro mutters to the countertop. It doesn’t stop his arms from trembling, but he’s alone, as far as he knows, so nobody can eavesdrop and think he’s completely out of his mind. Hearing himself say this makes him feel more certain. Not by much, but by enough that he can bite out, “I am not doomed. I do deserve better. And I am _nothing_ like him.”

_You’re **exactly** like me and you **know** it,_ that voice snaps, getting even further into character, making Shiro’s throat itch so hard and so hot, it feels like the only way he can make it stop is by clawing at it, scraping his teeth along his knuckles, and gagging himself until he pukes. And yet, ever persistent, the voice dogs at him, snarling, _You should be **grateful** for your monstrosity, all the places we’re the same. What would you even be without them? Weak, and broken, assuming that you were still alive to be anything at all. You could be **nothing** without the parts of your soul that you’d deny—_

“I am _not_ nothing!” Shiro clenches his jaw and shuts his eyes. He leans harder on the counter, shoulders quivering with the tension that seeps up through his arms.

He shakes his head, because he _isn’t_ broken. He isn’t useless, or worthless, or anything else that Maurice convinced him that he was, with more help than he needed from Shiro’s own mind. He has a choice. None of what this wormy, slithering, addict-brained voice is telling him needs to be true because Shiro can stop that. It’s on him, he has to accept _his_ responsibility for _his_ choices.

“I _am_ something,” he whispers. “I am some _one_. Anything we have in common, I _don’t_ have to give in to that. I’m _better off_ without you—”

_You would be **dead** without me, Takashi. Pushing that incident to the back of your mind won’t erase it. Pretending that you only feel hate toward me will never change the fact that **you** wanted to die and **I kept you alive** —_

“ _One_ time,” Shiro whispers. “I only tried on purpose once. You only saved me _once_.”

_Once is all it takes when the subject at hand is suicide—_

“But how many other times could you have killed me _yourself_ , if not for Haxus?” The half-tablet _tap-tap-tap_ s on the counter as Shiro lets it drop. He splays his palm out flat, slides it to an untouched spot, where the surface is cool enough to keep him sharp. “He never liked having me around. He only patched me up for _your_ sake. So you wouldn’t get _exposed_. How many times did he put me back together and keep you from becoming a murderer.”

_You should be grateful. Those occasions **were** accidents, and again, you prove that you’d be **dead** if not for me—_

“I’d be dead if I’d stayed with you, too!”

Maybe that sounds louder than Shiro intends, maybe not. He can’t tell. Not when his entire body feels like it could snap in half at any minute, except for where it feels like something heavy’s resting behind his head, forcing him to bare the back of his neck.

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Shiro shakes his head. Maurice isn’t here. This conversation isn’t real. It’s coming from feelings that Shiro hasn’t fully dealt with, feelings he spent so long burying so he could survive and now he’s still unpacking them. He is talking to himself, and his mind is playing it all out as a confrontation with Maurice because leaving Chicago the way Shiro did — seizing an opportunity and running while Maurice and Haxus were in St. Louis with Maurice’s Mother — that’s left him feeling like he never truly got any closure, or that’s what Ulaz says—

Right, Ulaz. Shiro nods and tries to picture his therapist’s face, long and thin with his high, sharp cheekbones. Tries to conjure up Ulaz’s voice instead as he tells himself to breathe, to focus, to go over the questions that can help ground him back in the present moment.

It’s early Tuesday evening, October twenty-fourth. He’s by himself in the employee backroom at Phalen’s Books and Curiosities, he’s bent and slouching over the countertop by the sink. His name is Shirogane Takashi, he got it from his parents who chose it for his Grandfather, and he’s been, _“Shiro”_ since the first day of first grade, when he decided that most of his classmates didn’t get the privilege of calling him, _“Kashi”_ like Ryou and their family have always done. To an extent, even calling him, _“Shiro”_ has become a privilege, because it means that he’s dealing with someone closely enough that he doesn’t want to be on a completely last-name basis. His shoulders are tense and his stomach’s unsettled, but he’s not in any pain. His arms are shaking like he’s just come in from the freezing rain. But he hasn’t, not recently. He is dry, and inside, and he can’t tell if he’s hungry or not. His name is Shirogane Takashi and he’s alive—

_Because of **me**!_ , growls the mental voice that wants so badly to sound like Maurice. Even now, it’s managing that impersonation far too well.

“Because of _me_ ,” Shiro snaps back at it. “You saved me once, but _I’m_ the one who got away from you. _I’m_ the one who got out—”

_**You’re** the one who would have left me for dead if you hadn’t forgotten your Vicodin! Of the two of us, **you** are the one who wanted **me** to die, not the other way around. You can lie to your therapist, lie to your groups, lie to your brother, to Keith, to Lance and everyone who loves you. But here, alone, you can’t pretend that you never once thought about the different ways you would have **loved** to see me die…_

“You _hurt_ me,” bursts from Shiro’s lips. He can’t feel his heartbeat and his head feels light, but he hisses, “You hurt me. Manipulated me. Used everything I did or said or loved against me and told me it was my fault…”

Shiro shouldn’t be able to hear this cackling so precisely, as if Maurice is really here and mocking him. But as he bangs the heel of his palm on the counter, that voice is right there, as clear and sharp as a white diamond, telling him, _Perhaps I was sometimes **rough** with you, but you said that it was fun, you told me that it was what you **wanted** —_

“You _ignored_ my safe-words and made me believe that you actually felt _sorry_ , that you _didn’t mean it_ —”

_Then, true, I often provided you with tough love_ —

“It was _abuse_ —”

_I saw the fire burning in you that night, the night when **you** almost became a murderer—_

“I was _suicidal_ and you cared more about telling me I _belonged_ to you—”

_You belong **with** me, Takashi. You can run to Massachusetts, you can sober up, you can grow out your hair and fancy other young men and get all the tattoos that you never could have had with me… But these cosmetic differences are **haggling** , at best. We’re **connected** , you and I. No matter how far you run, you can never escape it. A piece of me will **always** be with you, always in your heart—_

“Yeah,” Shiro hisses. “It’s called trauma. I have people who can help me through it. People who _really_ care about me—”

_But how much can they do for you? Trauma is a smokescreen, just as your addictions are a smokescreen. All distractions and nothing more, clouding the real issue, which is that you are fundamentally defective. Not even Ryou knows the true darkness in your heart. Lance and your friends would never accept you if they knew the half of it. Even Lotor knew that something inside of you is so broken and twisted in ways that would put his parents to shame, no wonder he couldn’t handle the effort it takes to love you, no wonder why he left—_

“I dumped _him_! We both hurt each other, it was _bad_ for us, _mutually_ —”

_—and then there’s Keith, isn’t there. Sad, strong, beautiful Keith, who you weren’t supposed to ever see again—_

“Because of _you_! I hurt him plenty on my own, but _you_ were the one who pulled us apart—”

_Because you **belonged** with me back then, the same way that you do now,_ the voice snarls, sounding more like Maurice than it has yet. _I know what you need and I know what you **are**. I know how to satisfy you, how to slake that hunger you won’t allow yourself to understand. Keith may think that he wants to be with you. He might even really believe that. But how **can** he know what he wants when he doesn’t know the first thing **about** you? How can you pretend it would be good for you, for either of you, to be with him and deny the truth of what you are — what **we** are — so he can pretend to have found his Prince Charming? How can you pretend that we aren’t the same, Takashi? You **know** that you’re going to hurt Keith again and you would shackle him to you anyway…_

Tears sting as Shiro opens his eyes but they don’t spill over. “I’m not listening to you anymore,” he whispers.

He wipes his eyes off on his sleeves. He picks up his half-tablet and his paper cup, but flinches as his own mind laughs at him in this voice he wishes he could forget.

_Oh, my sweet boy,_ it chuckles fondly. _Do you really think a monster like you could win the love of a boy like that?_

“Shut. Up,” Shiro says, and places Xanax on his tongue.

That feeling is real, he reminds himself. The acrid taste as it starts dissolving before he washes it down — that’s real, too. There is no hand cupping his jaw or beguiling him into letting it hold his cheek. There are no thick fingertips drumming up his spine. No one is breathing against his ear, and no matter what ghosts his own mind conjured, no matter how convincing they were, Maurice has not been here. If he’s still alive and hasn’t wound up in prison for helping Haxus in the illegal diversion of prescription narcotics if nothing else, then he has no idea where Shiro is. He cannot have been here for real, reiterating all of his old arguments for why Shiro can’t leave because Shiro _owes_ him and Shiro _needs_ him.

Mr. Phalen, however, is here in the real, present moment, lingering in the doorway when Shiro turns around. His argyle sweater-vest cozies up on his pudgy frame and for all his round, inviting face is knotted in concern, the lights glint hard off his wire-rim glasses. It’s like they’re subtly warning Shiro not to lie, and that’s reinforced by the slightly sharp note in Mr. Phalen’s voice as he asks:

“Is everything alright, dear boy? Are you feeling unwell?”

“I… have been better,” Shiro concedes with a nod. “Been a lot _worse_ , too, but…”

The arch to Mr. Phalen’s blond eyebrow suggests that, although he might not _currently_ accuse Shiro of fibbing to him outright, he does suspect that rather a lot has been redacted from this answer and that Shiro has most likely looked better, too. Then again, Shiro can’t argue with the former point and the latter point wouldn’t surprise him, if he had a convenient mirror to verify things in. But as he slouches at the hips, he pulls his mouth back before it can curve into too much of a smile.

“I _thought_ that I heard you speaking to someone?” Mr. Phalen ventures.

“Yeah, to myself…” Shiro’s cheeks twinge pink as he scratches at the back of his neck. “I think I held off on taking my Xanax for too long? Everything built up slowly, so I didn’t think too much of it. Then I got back here to take it and had to remind myself why it’d be a bad idea to skip my A.A. tonight, and a few things caught up with me, and…?”

He shrugs, trailing off into a soft, vague noise. Unfortunately, as much as Mr. Phalen understands who he hired and what that means, Shiro would need to catch him up on too much to explain why he and Ulaz think that Shiro’s mind conjures up Maurice as a mental voice actor for certain feelings and impulses that Shiro largely isn’t proud of. It might help a bit if he knew how much his boss overheard, but at the same time, Shiro kinda doesn’t want to know. At least, not right now. For the time being, it’s enough that Mr. Phalen gives him a small, kind smile and a sympathetic nod.

“Why don’t you take off early, dear boy,” he says, gently but with an edge as if this isn’t actually a suggestion. It leaves Shiro feeling like, if he attempts to refuse, Mr. Phalen might not hesitate to bodily drag him out of the shop by his earlobe. “Go call your brother or a friend. Have dinner before your meeting. I’ll close up on my own tonight.”

*** * ***

Checking his texts on the way out of the shop, Shiro finds some from Pidge (asking if they can push practice back a bit on Thursday night because Ryner invited a poet friend to campus for a reading and Pidge wants to go; she earns an easy, _“Yeah, of course”_ ), Matt (asking if Shiro’s seen his and Pidge’s favorite biography of Alan Turing lately, Matt has turned their apartment upside down and he can’t find it, which gets an easy, _“Haven’t seen it, but I’ll keep a weather eye out ❤️”_ ), and Ryou (asking why in the world Pidge has been asking him about Shiro’s old BDSM erotica and insistently saying that Matt says it’s okay to let her have it like it’s really Matt’s place to tell his little sister what she’s not allowed to read).

Rather than try explaining that last one over texts, Shiro calls instead, meandering vaguely in the direction of his meeting and telling Ryou (more or less) everything when he picks up.

“She’s twenty-one,” Ryou points out with a sigh, when Shiro’s done catching him up on this. “If she asks about it again, I’m giving it to her.”

“I’m not saying that I object to her reading it. I’m saying I object to Matt trying to kill me because _he_ might object to her reading it.”

“Well, Matt can answer to me if he so much as thinks about killing you. But for what it’s worth, he probably couldn’t do it.”

“That’s nice, but I don’t even want to give him the _option_? I’m over near-death experiences, like? No thanks, I’m good, I’ve had enough, please let me live.”

Which probably isn’t a particularly reassuring for Ryou to hear, because present sentiment aside, Shiro is still admitting to thinking about things like that. He’s still confessing to having semi-regular thoughts about death and dying, and his brushes with it, and whether or not he even wants to be alive — and to having enough thoughts like this that he already has his feelings sorted out, no matter what they are.

So as he wanders through Rover’s park, Shiro sighs and asks, “Are you busy? Or do you have dinner plans tonight?”

“Neither,” Ryou tells him, perking up. “And Slav’s off at something with _Sven_ tonight, so… Everything okay?”

Much as he’d like to derail, Shiro doesn’t let himself ask why Ryou’s taken to sneering Sven’s name as if the guy is some asshole at a party who won’t shut up about how he totally met David Bowie at Starbucks this one time when he was living in London on a MacArthur Genius Grant. Instead, Shiro slouches against a tree and gives Ryou a noncommittal noise that even he will admit doesn’t sound very okay. Maybe closer to the ballpark of okay than Shiro usually gets, but still, distinctly not okay. It probably got kicked out of the ballpark because it refused to hand over a switchblade that got caught by a security guard.

He says, “I got myself wound up at work. I want to get dinner before my meeting, but I don’t wanna eat alone?”

“I’m packing up to go home anyway,” Ryou replies so warmly that it’s the verbal equivalent of one of his hugs. “Are you feeling more like, ‘Don’t know how much you trust yourself right now’ not wanting to eat alone, ‘Emotionally overwhelmed and/or messy’ not wanting to eat alone, or, ‘You just love being around people and hate being lonely’ not wanting to eat alone?”

“I mean, do I have to only pick _one_? Because… Yeah, exactly, a mix of all three?” Shiro shoves his free hand into his jeans’ pocket and squints at the streetlights flickering on. Weird — he isn’t tearing up or tired enough for them to look so fuzzy, but they look a little soft around the edges. Well, whatever that means, Shiro tells Ryou, “Some nervous stuff started building up earlier, and it went so slow, I didn’t really _notice_ where it was going? Then when I did, I went to take my Xanax—”

“ _Good_ —”

“—But I must’ve waited too long? Because I still took it…” Shiro huffs. “But not before I low-grade freaked out?”

“Is that a _you_ low-grade freaking out?” Ryou prods. “Or would anyone else consider it that, too?”

“Probably not.” The closest Shiro might get to that is Hunk, Pidge, and Ulaz humoring him until he realized on his own just how off-base he was in calling it a, _“low-grade”_ freak out. Rubbing gently at the bridge of his nose, he acquiesces, “I’m downplaying it, kinda. _Mostly_ because I already had to talk myself out of feeling like I’m irreparably broken—”

“And a little bit because you don’t want me to worry?” Ryou says, not really asking a question. “Even though I’m gonna do it anyway?”

“That’s the third-biggest reason that I’ve come up with.” Nodding doesn’t settle Shiro’s nerves much, but with a sigh, he still manages to make himself admit, “The fourth-biggest reason is that I was literally just telling Keith that he isn’t broken when we talked last night, so I feel like a hypocrite. And the second-biggest reason is that this freak-out came as yet another imaginary confrontation with Maurice? All kinds of, ‘You’re nothing, you’re broken, you’re a monster, nobody else but me can really love you and without me, you’d be dead’—”

“Oh _Jesus_ , Kashi, where _are_ you right now—”

“Rover’s park, but it’s okay. I mean, relative to the situation? Which still sucks, I’m not gonna say it doesn’t, but y’know…” Tucking his white fringe behind his ear, Shiro barely manages not to sigh. “I feel like I actually won this one… Told myself off and took my meds instead of completely breaking down? _Or_ needing someone else to tell me to take my meds?”

“But are you, like, craving or anything? Wanting to drink?”

Shiro needs a moment to think, but as the answer truly dawns on him, he says, “No, actually? I thought about purging earlier, when the episode was still going on, but I didn’t do it. And right now, all I want is to see you and eat before my meeting. Maybe at the little, family-owned Olkari place that Ezor showed you? It’s about halfway between you and the community center, right?”

“I’m putting on my jacket now,” Ryou says by way of agreeing. “And, Kashi? I’m glad you called.”

“So am I,” says Shiro, and as he shoves off in the direction of their meeting place, he realizes that he means it.

*** * ***

After dinner, Ryou takes it upon himself to walk with Shiro over to the LGBTQ community center on Spring Street.

Not because he doesn’t trust his Kashi not to go, he says as they’re heading up Maple together, getting into the last few blocks before they’ll hit their destination. No, see, Ryou’s doing this because it’s his solemnly sworn duty as a brother to do whatever he can for Shiro after any kind of freaking out that involves figments of Maurice. Because he only has one brother, and he loves said brother, and so help him, Ryou doesn’t want to lose his Kashi. Pointing out that his and Slav’s apartment is in the exact opposite direction only earns Shiro a mostly playful nudging of shoulders and a reminder of how many times he came uptown and risked dealing with Slav, all to pull Ryou back out into the bodily, real world when he still was finishing his dissertation.

“And how many times you only stood up to your idiot lacrosse team friends because they decided to pick on me,” Ryou adds, leaning toward Shiro as much as he can while they’re walking. “And how you had to tell off Mark _and_ Lance about calling me, ‘Off-Brand Shiro’ even though they didn’t know that Bryce used to call me that and weren’t _trying_ to be cruel about it. _And_ how many times you basically _were_ the superhero big brother I’ve always seen you as—”

“Okay, _okay_ , duly noted.” Shiro half-sighs and half-laughs at his brother’s insistence on regaling him with compliments. Maybe he falls a bit more on the laughing side, given the snort that comes out and the way Ryou seems to breathe a little easier.

When they get to it, the community center is the same as ever: an austere, red-brick exterior sitting right between a florist’s shop and a Unitarian church, with an understated, violet sign hanging by the front door. A cartoon rainbow arches around the white font of the center’s name, showing all eight colors from Gilbert Baker’s original pride flag — pink, red, orange, yellow, green, turquoise, indigo, and violet — and someone’s plastered new rainbow-print raised fist and _“Black Lives Matter”_ stickers over the ones that were fading and peeling off, just last Friday. Without that pointer, Shiro and Ryou could be just as easily be meeting with an attorney, a tailor, an accountant, or an oddball psychic/personal investment manager who sets their own hours and works out of their own home. It makes sense enough, given that the community center’s thrice-refurbished building was first a townhouse and then a storefront. As he lets them in, though, Shiro braces himself for Ryou’s soft gasp.

It comes, as always, with Ryou marveling at the mint green-painted walls with their mural of Oscar Wilde, Harvey Milk, Marsha P. Johnson, Sylvia Rivera, Stormé DeLarverie, James Baldwin, Audre Lorde, Freddie Mercury, and Cherrié Moraga, with their portraits done in violet, hot pink, cherry red, electric blue, brilliant orange, and black. Tugging at Shiro’s elbow, Ryou glances at the balloon bouquet sitting on the receptionist’s desk — Andy, the pierced guy currently manning it, smiles and explains that it’s fellow office assistant Kennedy’s birthday, so the staff got her something pretty and had a little party over lunch — and the different brightly-colored posters hanging around the pin-boards and empty spots of wall. Extra copies of them sit on the desk and on a table down the wide corridor that goes where Shiro wants.

Maybe the interior doesn’t shock Shiro like Dorothy’s first glimpse of Oz, or like realizing too late that your new Chicago friends have wrangled a fake ID and taken you out to your first gay bar without even asking if you’re gay or not. But still, it’s different enough from the center’s exterior that he can’t begrudge Ryou being startled. Anyway, Shiro sees the inside more often than Ryou does. He’s more accustomed to it.

Upstairs are the two floors of rooms that serve as offices for community outreach organizers, the makeshift computer lab, and rooms for hosting individual sessions with therapists, legal consultants, or spiritual advisors. Leading Ryou along the familiar path, Shiro passes the wide-open room with the floor-to-ceiling bay windows where he and Lance have come for yoga and meditation classes. Tonight, it’s full of fold-up tables, where teenagers experiment with watercolor paints while two of the counselors, Leon and Ginger, wander among them and ask questions or offer input. There’s a kitchen further back, open to anyone but predominantly used by the staff and the folks who make use of the center’s limited-but-open shelter space. On the other side of the house are the rooms that accommodate the latter group.

Whatever the original intended use of the huge, high-ceilinged room that Ryou follows Shiro to, it’s gotten stripped down to hardwood floors and mostly empty space, when it isn’t being used for something. One corner has a patch of carpeting and a few secondhand sofas of varying sizes. At present, a podium sits toward the head of the room and a pair of fold-up plastic card-tables rest against the back wall, with two coffee-pots, a few plates of cookies and muffins, a coterie of paper napkins and styrofoam cups, and still more extra copies of different flyers hanging up elsewhere in the center. Most of the group are here already, sitting in the horseshoe arrangement of folding chairs that halo out around the podium. They linger in the wide threshold for a moment with Ryou patting Shiro on the back while he scans the assembled faces. Robin isn’t here yet, but Mitch leans back in a chair toward the middle of the horseshoe and his lips quirk up ever-so-slightly, not quite into a smile, as he notices Ryou and Shiro.

Seeing Mitch makes Ryou sigh in warm relief and knowing him, he’s probably smiling at seeing his old advisor. But Ryou doesn’t let Shiro see his face for sure or not. He just drapes his arms around Shiro’s shoulders and scoops him up into a tight, warm hug. Shiro squeezes back, looping his arms around Ryou’s soft middle and leaning into him.

“I know Lance is meeting you later,” he says. “But don’t hesitate to call if you want me, okay?”

Shiro promises, “I won’t,” and butts his forehead into Ryou’s before grabbing two cups of coffee and heading to Mitch’s side.

He takes the seat on Mitch’s left because the one of two chairs closest to Mitch’s right has Lizzie sitting in it and the other has a sweater draped across the back. Shiro is Robin’s only sponsee at the moment, and he’ll almost definitely want to sit by Shiro when he gets here. Which doesn’t always mean them sitting by Mitch, but Robin understands when it does. Shiro’s sponsor-search got narrowed down to Mitch and Robin, back when he was doing it. The biggest reasons why Robin won came down to pieces of context that meant Shiro could’ve gotten a bit too emotionally muddled about sorting out his feelings toward Mitch and their relationship, which could’ve kept Mitch from being helpful as a sponsor.

For one thing, Mitch knew Ryou first, and even through Shiro’s time with Maurice and his stint in rehab, Mitch never heard anything but worry, admiration, and love from Ryou about his twin, so Shiro initially felt a need to impress Mitch. For another and rather more importantly, both brothers agreed that there was _something_ about him that reminded them of their Grandfather, Shiro’s late namesake.

Picking out that something never gets much easier for Shiro, since it keeps changing. But tonight, it’s the way he grumbles a, _“Thanks, son”_ that’s warm and soft by Mitch’s standards (if not necessarily by anybody else’s), and asks with a huff if Shiro’s having a rough day rather than letting him stew in silence or ruminate too much. Asking right off the bat nominally helps to keep Shiro from getting so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he never gets them out there or works on really understanding them. It doesn’t always work, but _some_ kind of plan is better than having _no_ plan whatsoever. Maybe Grandfather Shirogane would’ve picked a different way to ask than Mitch’s. His approach to the issue at hand, in general, would have held different principles higher than other. He probably wouldn’t have gently elbowed at Shiro’s side when coming up with his answer takes a bit longer than Mitch likes, so much as arched an eyebrow and cleared his throat. The rationale is more or less the same, though.

“It’s just a question, Shiro,” Mitch points out. “I’m looking for honesty, not a right or wrong answer.”

—Or anyway, Mitch gets to a fairly similar place as Grandfather Shirogane in a different way and for some very different reasons. Granted, Grandfather Shirogane never had to live to see the grandson who’d been named in his honor end up in rehab by twenty-three, but he still pushed for honesty. _“Lying to me or to your parents enables lying to yourself,”_ he always used to tell Shiro, especially when Bryce was being particularly obnoxious or, in retrospect, when Shiro was putting too much stress on himself about pleasing people who didn’t really care about him. _“Watching you fool yourself like that is something by which I cannot abide, Kashi. Know yourself, know what you deserve, and do not let anyone take that from you.”_

The last time Shiro heard a talk like that was right before he left for school on the day Grandfather Shirogane died—

“ _Shiro_ ,” Mitch grumbles, nudging Shiro’s side again. “What’s going on, son?”

Shiro sighs and lets the first thought that comes to mind drop past his lips: “Right now? I’m wishing that I’d appreciated my Grandfather Namesake more when he was actually alive… Sorry, it’s not what you asked? But my mind just wandered to him, so…?”

“Don’t apologize for your feelings, you don’t need to do that.” A long sip of coffee, and then Mitch adds, “So. Rough day?”

“Not all of it,” Shiro supposes. “I mean, I had Ryou take me to dinner because I was feeling like a mess? And I was feeling like a mess because I got lost in arguing with myself and scrambled my own head around. Did that ’til I made my impulses like, ‘Oh, it’s okay to skip a meeting when I know I really need to be there tonight, and when I want to be there for reasons that scare me’ start sounding like my one abusive ex—”

“Jeez…” Mitch sighs and sympathetically pats Shiro’s knee.

“But at the same time? I told said impulses off. I took my anxiety meds, even if I got to the Maurice place because I waited too long. I’m feeling pretty okay, in general? For the most part? I called Ryou and got him to meet me instead of stewing by myself, and I had a mutually reassuring lunch with Lance, I’m feeling pretty proud of both of us right now…”

He pauses and snorts a bit as Mitch rolls his eyes, not at anything Shiro’s feeling but, as ever, at having Lance brought up around him. Not that Shiro can blame him for that, when Lance was apparently a mild-to-moderate pain-in-the-ass as a student, never mind being a perpetual handful — which was before he and Shiro met each other, so he doesn’t know the whole story. But the bits that Shiro’s heard from both parties have sounded _exactly_ like Lance, sometimes in the best ways possible, occasionally in the worst, and most often in ways that refuse such easy, simple categorization. Seeing Shiro’s playful smirk, Mitch mutters an apology, one that Shiro holds isn’t necessary.

“Openness goes all ways, right?” He smiles at Mitch instead of smirking, then adds, “And, uh? On top of that, there’s this _guy_ … He’s not really a new guy? I mean, we lost touch for a while, so there are new things to learn about each other, but… He’s back now, and I still have feelings for him like I did before. And he knows and reciprocates, and I actually know that now, which is a big deal for us? And he slept over last night after we talked it out, and he was just…”

Shiro trails off into a warm sigh, one that makes Mitch nod and agree that he’s happy to see Shiro in good spirits about this.

“But your guy,” he says. “Keith Kogane, right?”

Hearing that, Shiro about chokes on his coffee. Mitch nods as if he expected something like that.

“Another former student,” he explains. “Another pain in my ass, but for different reasons than Lance. _That_ one’s more like a prissy, yappy purse dog who’d try to fight a doberman and get his ass handed to him. Or who’d try to jump on the couch and miss, then stomp off like he meant to do that.” Cringing, Mitch sips his coffee, then adds, “But Keith’s a little bulldog, you know what I mean? Scrappy, tenacious, dedicated, doesn’t know when to give up a fight…”

“I’ve always thought of him as more like a finicky cat?” Shiro glances at the door and still finds no sign of Robin. Okay, he’ll get here when he gets here, or text if he can’t make it. Eyes back on Mitch, Shiro clarifies, “I mean, I see where you’re coming from? And it’s probably on how we know Keith in different contexts? But in my experience, Keith’s always been, like… He wants affection, but only from certain people, in certain, usually pretty particular ways. He hates being alone, but doesn’t trust most folks easily. There are some exceptions to that. Not very many, I mean? But there _are_ people who he’ll warm up to quicker—”

“Like you?” Mitch quirks an eyebrow.

“I was thinking more like his ex-girlfriend, who’s now his best friend? And I guess he and Hunk get along pretty well, so maybe Hunk? But he’d probably agree with you about me, so…” With a shrug, Shiro tries to wrap this up, lest he spend too much time on Keith and not enough on himself, in this present moment. “Keith doesn’t let people in easily. But once he does, once you really earn his trust? You’ve got him on your side. _Apparently_ , you can even screw up, hurt him while totally addled on your own self-abuse, disappear for four-and-a-half years and tell him to go have a life without you instead of waiting, with subtext like, ‘You don’t deserve this and you are better off without me.’ Then, show up again, clean and sober but with probably more baggage than he ever would’ve bet on…”

Shiro sighs preemptively, unsure how comforting he finds his last thought on this: “And Keith’s default impulse is still to trust me.”

It takes Mitch a moment of reflection before he concedes, “Yeah, that is a _very_ different way to know him. I mostly know him as the kid who smoked out actual STEM-track students in a STEM-track intro physics lecture, not the standard gen ed one. But _apparently_ , he couldn’t do that without fighting me or my TAs about absolutely everything, and the worst part is? Come to find out, he couldn’t even care less about physics. He took that class because the gen ed one sounded boring and didn’t fit his schedule.”

Shiro snorts and, despite Mitch’s annoyance, he can’t help smiling. “Yeah, that sounds like Keith.”

“He didn’t even _take_ the class going on at the same time as my gen ed lecture. Not _officially_ ,” Mitch goes on. “Not like he told me so himself, though. I had to hear it from Thace, who got sent to ask me why Keith wasn’t in the gen ed class, because it turns out? He was going to one of Kolivan’s classes. Some upper-level course on political protests and organizing, I don’t know? Keith’s a freshman, he didn’t have _any_ of the prereqs for it, didn’t even sign up to audit it properly. And Thace is his advisor, but only finds out he’s doing this because Kolivan wants to know why the Hell Thace’s advisee is unofficially taking Kolivan’s class but doing better work than most of the students who are actually enrolled in it.”

“That _definitely_ sounds like Keith…” Once he’s cleared up the bare bones of Keith’s admiration for Kolivan and how it started before he even got to Kaltenecker U, Shiro pauses. An idea sparks up, and he has to ask, “Not to derail, or pry, or anything, Mitch? But how’d you know about me and Keith? Did _he_ tell you?”

“Nah, I put it together myself. After rescuing him from a different ex of yours.”

The sigh that Mitch lets slip sounds like he’s holding back somewhat, and dimly, Shiro hopes that Mitch isn’t doing it out of a desire to spare any of _Shiro’s_ feelings. But whatever the reason, Mitch is forthcoming and blunt as ever with his story about Lotor chatting up Keith at Java Hut, mentioning Shiro while doing so, and refusing to listen when Keith told him to back off. Lotor only scampered, it seems, because Mitch put the fear of Honerva into her son (or possibly the fear of disappointing her more than she usually claims), which points to a few possible reasons why Lotor might’ve decided to bother Keith. Doesn’t make Shiro feel any better about the situation, but at least he has some kind of clue about what he’s dealing with.

Some part of Shiro wishes that he hadn’t asked, even though he knows that he might not have heard about this from Keith (who, if you ask Shiro, most likely wants that encounter with Lotor to be an isolated incident). He almost definitely wouldn’t have heard about it from Lotor (who only would have brought it up if he could somehow twist the story to his advantage and likely would not admit something more closely resembling the truth unless Acxa or _maybe_ Narti were around to help Shiro poke holes in Lotor’s version of events). It’s probably this part of him, Shiro’s reluctance laced with regret, that makes him groan and slump back in his chair as he tries to process what he’s thinking and how he’s feeling about all of this. He rubs at his nose, brushing his thumb over his scar, and lets his long legs splay out where they will. When Mitch prods about how he’s feeling, Shiro needs a second and refills their coffee, instead.

“Son, it is _not_ your responsibility to babysit Lotor,” Mitch says instead of thanking Shiro. “You _know_ this.”

“I know, but I’m not talking about babysitting him. Not entirely?” Sinking in his chair again, Shiro sighs over the brim of his cup. “Lotor’s choices are his own and ultimately on him, not me. Yes, I get that? Maybe I need to remind myself of it sometimes, but I _do_ get it. But it’s also not like he’s the only one of the two of us who ever screwed up by the other. I mean, I hurt him too, and I don’t want to be with him — a lot of the time, I don’t even want to be _around_ him? But I want him to get better, too…”

Mitch sighs. “I admire your compassion, Shiro, and your capacity for hope. Especially after all you’ve been through. But don’t forget to take care of yourself, too. Making amends to that obnoxious little shit _does not_ require you to supervise him. Or to ignore what _he_ did to you, or to compromise _your own_ well-being in the name of…”

From the sound of how Mitch trails off, there’s something more that he wants to say. For better, for worse, and for neither exactly, Shiro most likely deserves to hear it.

Time waits for no one, though. Never has, never will, and the meeting has to start. As Miranda, their usual group leader, swings up to the podium in her floral-print blouse and jangling collection of vibrant plastic bangles, Shiro still can’t see hide or hair of Robin. Frowning, he fumbles at his sweatshirt pocket, at his keys, one of his mp3 players, and his rolled up earbuds before remembering that his phone is in his jeans. He’s pulling it out when Miranda clears her throat and calls everyone’s attention up to the head of the room. Leading them through the same rules as always, so that everyone’s on the same page about how the group operates, Miranda casts her glance on all of them. Shiro doesn’t even get a look at his texts, just slides his phone back into place.

Although it isn’t anybody’s first time here for a meeting, the group does have someone who’s still counting days. Her name is Kelly and she’s an alcoholic. Tonight, she has her black hair tied back in high ponytail that shows where her light brown roots are growing in while still managing to draw attention to her Buddy Holly glasses. As she confides that she’s forty-two days sober, her cherub-cheeked face seems to swim and go fuzzy around the edges. Which is weird, because Shiro isn’t crying and doesn’t even feel like he _might_. He claps for her with everyone else, though, because even if it weren’t an accomplishment to get this far, that’s just what you do.

Rubbing his eyes brings Kelly herself back into something close to clarity, but leaves Shiro squinting to see what’s on her shirt. He’s expecting Benjamin, the cow who inexplicably shows up on a lot of Kaltenecker U’s school spirit merchandise, since Kelly’s mentioned being a grad student there before. Shiro purses his lips when, instead of said cow, he makes out the screenprinted cover of Bauhaus’s “Bela Lugosi’s Dead.” Which is especially weird because the high-contrast image — a shadow of bat wings over top of a room and a door — looks absolutely nothing like any cow that Shiro has ever seen in his life. Certainly nothing like Benjamin. Strange… Just like the dull ache of _something but nothing in particular_ that idly kicks at the inside of his skull like Lance and Pidge when they’re waiting for something and lose track of what their legs are doing.

At least Miranda doesn’t give him too much of a chance to dwell on that. She clears her throat again, dragging Shiro back into the important pieces of the present moment so he can focus on her and what she announces for the group: “Now, Robin was meant to be our speaker tonight, and he’s very sorry that he can’t be here with us. Unfortunately, there was a family emergency, and he needs to be with his nieces and nephews. I don’t mean to put anyone on the spot, since I understand that none of you necessarily have something prepared? But could we possibly get a volunteer? If not, then I can take…”

She trails off, blinking as Shiro’s hand snaps up. Not that he can really blame Miranda for that surprise, given how Shiro’s usually approached the question of whether or not he’s wanted to, “share” like this. She has even more cause for shock, considering how often his answer’s been, “Not really, no” or, “Yes, but largely because Robin sighed and Mitch looked disappointed when Shiro tried to wriggle out of it.”

At least, when Shiro nods and confirms for her that he’s sure — once he trades significant glances with Mitch and answers his, _“Full marks for dedication, but you do **not** have to do this, not after a day like the one you’ve had”_ with, _“No, I **want** to do it”_ and handing over his coffee — Miranda smiles and starts a polite round of applause. Walking up to the podium, Shiro doesn’t physically teeter but his heart’s racing so much that his breaths barely seem to be doing anything for him, and his head’s so light, he feels like Bambi, learning how to walk in the first place. Miranda gives his elbow a brief, reassuring squeeze before she concedes the speaker’s position to him, and the smile that Shiro manages for her doesn’t even feel like a lie.

As she takes a seat at his right, Shiro inhales deeply and slouches onto his elbows. He can do this, and he will. If he can get out of Maurice’s townhouse, if he can fight his way back to a place where he doesn’t feel like a mild breeze will knock him over into an emotional meltdown, if he can find Keith again out of nowhere and get through the talk they had last night and still find it in him to pull himself out of his earlier episode, to ground himself after getting plagued by figments of Maurice, then Shiro can share for the group. No matter how different it is from singing his feelings for fans and patrons in a crowded bar, Shiro can do this. Getting through the standard introduction — his name is Shiro, he’s an addict and alcoholic, he’s been sober for a year and two weeks, and he spent almost four full years trying to get to that milestone — doesn’t entirely bolster his confidence, but he’ll let himself down if he backs out now.

“I kinda wish that I were better at this extemporaneous thing,” he admits with a huff that almost wants to be a laugh. “I mean, Robin and Mitch and Miranda have been trying to encourage me to come up here more often and I’ve been trying to come up with some ideas that I could use for this, but y’know? Now, I’m blanking on most of them, and the ones that I remember don’t feel like what I want to share about today anyway. I could probably come up with a speech about the feeling of hurting and letting down the people I love and I know that you’re supposed to work on recovery for _yourself_? But I also don’t feel like I’m _not_ focusing on myself with that? Because I don’t want to hurt the people I love like I have. _I want_ to do better, because I know that I _can_ do better and _not_ doing better makes me feel terrible, so I can justify drinking. So, yes, it’s _related_ to the people I love and caring about them. But it’s still something that I’m doing _for me_ , right?”

Mostly, Shiro pauses because he wants a moment to breathe and collect his thoughts again.

As he’s doing that, though, he lets himself glance around the horseshoe instead of blinking at the wall. Kelly’s not exactly smiling at him, but she has her hands folded in her lap, she’s leaning toward the podium, and her mouth is curling up into _something_ that isn’t neutral. A few seats down from her, David, Violet, and Neely sit together, nodding like they’ve dealt with something similar and maybe agree with Shiro’s conclusion. Clasping his hands together, Shiro doesn’t let himself linger on Mitch for long enough to decide how he feels about the way Mitch has his arms folded over his chest. Whatever Mitch is thinking, Shiro nods down at the podium and gives himself one more deep breath. He can do this.

“What I really want to share about today is mixed emotions? Which kinda feels like an accurate phrase, but also like it doesn’t quite go far enough? But I’m not entirely sure what else to call it right now?” Shiro rubs his lips together. They’re getting a bit chapped, which is annoying, but he resists the urge to lick them and make it worse.

“So, mixed emotions are on my mind… because of, well? Because of this guy?” Maybe it’s his nerves, making Shiro cough up a breathless laugh. But either way, he presses on, “Even more than that, because of how things are going with this guy? I really love him, and I thought that he didn’t reciprocate? But I found out recently — as in like, I literally just found out yesterday — that he does. And he has for a long time. And in a lot of ways, I’m still getting my head around the fact that he’s here in my life again at all, never mind that he wants me back? Because I was so sure, for so long, that I’d never see him again and he’d always be my One Who Got Away… But he’s not, after all? We get to have this second chance, and I’m _so happy_ about that?”

Shiro blushes and rubs at the back of his neck as Kelly and David start another, shortish round of clapping. He almost feels bad about having to drag the mood back down, but… “The thing is, though? Well, there are a lot of things. First, there’s what we went through before. Because I hurt him and we miscommunicated in some really troublesome ways, and we didn’t always do right by each other, both deliberately and not, and it’s all still there, right? We’ve changed from who we were back then but changing like that doesn’t magically undo any of that.”

A deep breath. Shiro can do this, he can do this. “Second, the whole situation is bound up in another relationship I was in, back in Chicago. Arguably, it’s bound up in four of them?” Maybe he needs to tuck his white fringe behind his ear, then untuck it, and then put it back again. But Shiro’s still going to get through this. “Because there was my relationships with alcohol, pills, and the eating disorder that I only half-admitted to having because this guy caught me making myself sick and he was _scared_ for me. But there was also my relationship with a different guy — I know I’ve talked about him here before but? The short version is that I was in love with another guy around then, too. He was older, established, respected. We’d been seeing each other for four years, since I was eighteen, and so help me, I did _not_ want to admit that he was abusive or that he treated me…”

Shiro allows himself a sigh. He’s doing a pretty good job, if you ask him. Maybe he’s wrapped up more in context than what he actually wants to get at but he has to put this out there: “Like, I didn’t want to admit that any of his softer, nicer moments didn’t cancel out the ways he hurt me. Sure, it’s nice that he treated me to massages at expensive hotels. And it was nice that sometimes, he was kinda supportive when he knew that I was purging again or using more than usual, instead of calling me weak, or pathetic, or ungrateful? But he still left me with scars. And bruises. He ignored my safe-words, he blamed me for almost everything he did to me, and he got rough with me in ways that I didn’t entirely consent to then told me it was his right because I _owed_ him? But any time that I caught myself wanting better, _something_ would make me feel like I _deserved_ how he treated me.”

Somebody sneezes, and Shiro’s so grateful. As the group mutters their, _“Bless you”_ s, and as Kelly offers the packet of Kleenex from her bag, Shiro takes the moment to recenter himself. His chest is starting to feel heavy, like he’s filled his lungs with rocks, and his shoulders are tensing up. But he’s here in the meeting, surrounded by other people. All of them are safe, and this right here is real. Shiro sighs, shifting against the podium and twisting his fingers up in each other again. As much as part of him wants to look at Mitch, Shiro doesn’t let himself do it yet. Soon, he will. Maybe. Probably. But right now, he’s not sure if he’ll find reassurance, or concern that he doesn’t want to deal with right now, or what. Best thing for him right now is to stick this out and just keep sharing.

Once things have calmed down enough for him to speak again, Shiro explains, “I’m not saying that my abusive ex was the _only_ reason why I drank or used or found any other ways of hurting myself? He wasn’t, he _definitely_ wasn’t. I made that mistake in rehab. Tried to hang onto it after, even though I _knew_ from rehab that it wasn’t right. But he definitely exacerbated things. Gave me _more_ reason for using, since I wanted to ignore how much what he did to me hurt and how much I hated it. And he made me feel like garbage, or he reinforced how worthless and broken I already felt? So I didn’t feel like I had very many reasons not to use, or reasons why I should do better for myself… Which finally gets back to mixed feelings, since it’s another example of me having them?

“But what got me here was this essay that the guy I love wrote? He’s taking a creative nonfiction class at the college, and he wrote about _us_ for his midterm assignment, about everything that happened with us back in Chicago? And…” Another sigh and Shiro clenches his fingers together. Not too tightly and he doesn’t hold if for too long, but he’s restless, itching for something to do with his hands. “He borrowed my computer to finish typing his essay. He didn’t delete it when he was done, and I read it, and a lot of what he said in it got to me? The biggest one, though? It wasn’t him writing about the moment when I realized I might be falling for him. It wasn’t how he wrote about a song I wrote for him and watching me while I recorded it. It wasn’t even how he wrote about one of the last times we had sex back… Well, it was in the lead-up to that, but it wasn’t the sex itself? No, it was actually…”

Shiro swallows thickly. He should probably look up from the podium, look at someone else. But the best he can do is looking at one of the empty seats.

“At the time, he accused me of using sex to distract him from how badly off I was getting. I knew he felt that way and I feel like that was definitely part of it. I tried to deny it to his face, because there _was_ more to it than that…” There’s the uncomfortably familiar feeling, that squirming in his chest like Shiro shouldn’t be saying any of this. He tightens his grip on his hands again, but keeps going, and says, “But in the essay, he wrote that I’d used _gentleness_ to distract him. That I’d only been treating him kindly or being affectionate because I was dangling unspoken, empty promises over his head. And that I was doing it so he wouldn’t notice me hurting myself worse. And part of me wants to say that he was wrong, but? I don’t think he was. I think there were a few things he missed out on, because he _didn’t know_ how I felt, just like I didn’t really know how he felt? But the more I think about this? The more I feel like he had a point.”

Which is enough of an admission that Shiro deserves a sigh. But once he lets it out, he finds it easier to straighten up and stand at the podium. Sure, he’s still bracing himself on it, fingers curled around the edge, but resting on his elbows doesn’t seem like the right posture anymore. It feels too much like baring his neck and too much like he’s weighed down by things that he can choose to shake off. Even if they come back to him later, he doesn’t need to deal with them now. One more deep breath, then he catches Kelly giving him an eager not-quite-smile, perching so close to the literal edge of her seat, like she might fall clean off if she doesn’t get to hear the rest of this soon.

“Before yesterday, I’d thought about some of this, in some terms?” Shiro ventures, and gives her a nod and a small smile, so she hopefully knows that he can see her and appreciates how much she’s listening. “I’d thought about how I felt like I was only hurting myself, so it was okay. I’d thought about how, when I realized I was hurting other people — especially the people I love — I still felt like? ‘Oh, but I’m the worst now, so I don’t deserve them, but I do deserve to feel terrible and keep doing all of these things that hurt me.’”

Shiro takes a moment to steady himself before admitting, “I’d thought about how, even before my ex got to me, I didn’t really believe that I deserved to be loved. I’d thought about how much worse he made those feelings for me. And how much I believed that I was lucky my ex had taken pity on me, because no one else would ever have me. Especially not somebody like the guy I’m in love with. I just, it always felt like, ‘Why would he ever feel the same when he could do so much better? It’s bad enough that he already treats me with kindness and believes that I’m actually worth anything when I so deeply feel like I’m not. I’d only drag him down if I tried to be his boyfriend, but if we’re going to hook up like this, the least I can do is try to be nice and treat him like he deserves.’

“Which is such a horrible joke in to me now, in retrospect? Because if I’d treated him how he really deserved, I would’ve respected him better. Told him how I feel sooner and let him really choose, instead of limiting his ability to choose because he didn’t _know_ …”

Which is a convenient point of transition. Shiro takes a deep breath and holds it for a count of ten. He silently thanks his feelings about Keith for continuing to exist, but goes on with, “Choice was a big deal for me, too? In all of this? Because I’d also thought about things like, ‘I was so deep in the grip of my addictions, and an abusive relationship that I didn’t want to admit was abusive. So, I felt like my choices were even more limited than they might’ve been had I been sober or _not_ mixed up with my ex.’ Which is a whole other box of lobsters that I’ve had to deal with? Realizing how I’d wanted to be in control of my life and how I’d wanted to feel like I wasn’t constantly doing things I hated to please folks like the jerks I’d been friends with in high school. Or to prove that I wasn’t the Grandfather who I got named after and didn’t need to be.

“One of the worst things, like? It seemed small to the friend who said it, and he didn’t know what kind of bear he was poking…” Shiro brushes his white fringe off his face, and when he closes his eyes, he can almost hear Trevor ribbing him all over again. But he huffs, and opens them again, and presses on: “He didn’t know that I had an eating disorder. This was maybe a couple weeks before the guy I love showed up in Chicago, and if anybody had tried to tell me then that I had an eating disorder, I’d’ve thought they were out of their mind… My friend, though. One time, we’re at the gym and he’s done but I’m still going. So he tried to go like, ‘Man, I know being the hot friend is important to you, but come on, you already get more numbers than the rest of it, aren’t you hot enough, can’t you let it go?’ ”

A deep breath. Shiro tugs gently on his white fringe and tucks it back behind his ear. “And he wasn’t _entirely_ wrong? I _did_ want to look good, I _did_ like getting hit on. Sometimes, it felt like, ‘Maybe I can’t do anything else right, but at least I can have people think I’m good-looking.’ But my friend was trying to laugh this all off, like that was the only thing I cared about, and I had no idea how to tell him that I…”

Shiro swallows thickly. “That sometimes, I only felt like I had _anything_ under control when I didn’t let myself eat, or when I stuck to a super-restrictive plan. Sometimes, I only felt like I could _do anything at all_ when I pushed myself too hard at the gym. Or sometimes, I felt so _sick_ with myself, from just being _me_ , that it felt like all I could do was get so wasted that I didn’t need to feel like myself or else throw up until I purged whatever about me was so _broken_ … Which feels like it should’ve been a huge clue that I was _not_ as in control of my life as I felt, at the time, except that… I mean?”

Shrugging, he doesn’t mean to trail off for too long. But now, instead of heavy, Shiro’s chest is going cold. Something feels tight, like it’s clamping down on him, like it wants Shiro to cry and he could start at any moment. Even if his eyes are dry when he scrubs at them, even though they aren’t stinging, his chest has a sense like he might cry. True, his eyes are making people’s faces look hazy. Not quite _blurred_ , but like Shiro’s a fish at the aquarium up in Boston and he’s seeing everybody else through the water and from behind a pane of glass. Which should mean that he’s on the verge of tears, but his eyes still feel fine.

He digs the sharp edge of the podium at the mounds of his palm, but realizing what he’s doing, Shiro pulls his hand back. Leaves his fingers wrapped around the podium but doesn’t hang on too tightly. Glancing at David is a shot in the arm, whether he means it or not. He’s nodding at Shiro in recognition of feelings he’s dealt with too, and it’d make sense; he’s opened up about dealing with bulimia nervosa himself. And it’s good — or well, not _good_ exactly, since so much about both of their situations still sucks for them. It helps Shiro, though. Knowing that he’s not alone in this, that David knows eating disorders and the whole group knows addiction.

Rolling out his shoulders, Shiro nods more for himself than anyone. He says, “Even wanting that sense of agency, I guess you’d call it? I’d put so much of my trust into things that ultimately took it away. My addictions, obviously. My disorder. My relationship with my ex. The way that BDSM had been with other guys, for me, it was always important for them to respect the sub’s choices and limits. Er, the partner who takes the submissive role, that is? Which was always me. Someone from my therapy group in rehab? During lunch one time, he told me something like, ‘Well, no wonder you’ve felt like you didn’t have a choice. Your ex kept ignoring yours when you tried to make them’ — and that’s stuck with me?”

A shrug. Another deep breath. Shiro’s gotten so far into this and he can get the rest of the way, too. “So, I’d considered how that affected things with the guy I love. I’d considered a _lot_ of things about the situation, and a lot of feelings I had. A lot of reasons why I did what I did… But until yesterday, I hadn’t thought about it in the terms that he used. My first impulse was to go, ‘No, I didn’t know he was in love with me, so how could I have done that’ — and he even gave me a bit of an out on that? Because he kept saying in his essay that I didn’t know he was in love with me, so I couldn’t have done this quite so intentionally? But even without knowing, _really_ knowing, how he felt? I _did_ know he acted differently for me than he did for most people. He was less guarded with me, usually. Even if I didn’t know what it _meant_ , I still knew that I was special to him in _some_ way…”

Flicking his tongue against his lips, Shiro bites back a groan. He knows better than to lick chapped lips. But he can’t get out his lip-chap just yet, or he might never finish up. Reminding himself to keep breathing and keep swimming through this, Shiro glances around the horseshoe again. He doesn’t mean to let his gaze fall on Mitch at all, much less to linger there too long. For a moment, Shiro can’t think about how Mitch might be looking at him. Even after he squints Mitch’s face into sharper focus, Shiro’s nerves scratch all over his insides. His heart and stomach do backflips but refuse to get into synch with each other. Because if Mitch is upset with him or disappointed, then Shiro will hate this. If Mitch looks too concerned or too worried, then Shiro will feel like it’s all his fault.

Realizing that Mitch is as close as he ever gets to smiling, Shiro lets himself sigh. The tension doesn’t entirely melt out of him, but something bright and warm bursts through his chest. That bad old worming sensation still hisses at Shiro to stop talking about this and stop ratting out himself and his feelings, still won’t leave him alone. But there’s softness and unmistakable pride on Mitch’s face. The only reason why Shiro wouldn’t try to fly right now, is that gravity is still in place. Feelings are one thing, but they still can’t override the laws of physics.

“I’m not saying that I’ve _enjoyed_ thinking about all of this?” Shiro says, trying to focus himself on that warm feeling and feeding it. “I haven’t. It’s only been a day since I started considering what he wrote and how he feels, and it’s felt like kind of a mess, for me? But at the same time, for all the uncomfortable things I’m realizing in thinking about this? I’m also realizing, like? Even recently, I would’ve come closer to drinking or using than I have so far. Or I would’ve shut down, or buried myself in a distraction. Not necessarily one as potentially helpful for me as my songwriting, either… Because it’s _hurt_ to realize how much I hurt the guy I’m in love with, and I’ve felt so _lost_ , not being sure if he really does still think I’m worth the effort or is he just doing it because he feels obligated, like he’s trying to pay back a debt I never thought he owed in the first place…”

Heaving another sigh, Shiro drums his fingers along the podium. So close, so close, he’s almost done. All he needs is to get out this last batch of thoughts and feelings. Get his mouth around them, however he has to do that, and then spit them out where the group can react. Bring it on home, just like selling the end of a show.

“I don’t know, see? Now I’m starting to feel like I’m being dramatic, like this isn’t such a big deal…” he says, fussing with his white fringe until it’s loose but not falling on his face. “But it _is_ a big deal for me. And I’m _so_ grateful and _so. happy._ to have him back in my life again, but even more than that? I’m so grateful that I’ve had the chance to consider his perspective, and to reflect on these things. It’s a chance to grow, the same way that these conflicted feelings — the ones I’m having now _and_ the ones I had back then? Appreciating them has been a chance to find a way that I’ve come further than I expected, a way that I wasn’t even aware of until he and his essay put this test down in front of me. Even though he didn’t _mean_ for it to be a test…”

Which Keith can’t have done, since he didn’t deliberately leave the essay on Shiro’s hard drive. But Keith isn’t the point right now, and Shiro can text him after the meeting’s over if he wants to talk. He probably will. For now, though, Shiro needs to keep himself focused on this moment, right here. On the group and on his feelings.

“All of this is _such_ a big deal for me. And I’m grateful to be here and sober for it. I’m grateful to be sober at _all_ , I don’t think I would’ve gotten that if I weren’t… Reflecting on some of this has _sucked_ , and I feel like it’s going to keep being difficult? But this still feels like it’s going somewhere good, like it’s going to help me if I let it, and I want to let it help. Even though I got myself worked up into an anxiety spiral earlier, I feel like, y’know? Like today is a really good day…”

Nodding, Shiro manages to smile at the group. “And, again? I wish I were better at this extemporaneous speech-making thing, since now I’m not sure how to end it? But, y’know… Thanks for the opportunity to share, folks. Thanks for listening. Erm…” He glances to his right. “Miranda, can I sit down now? I feel like I’m done?” 

Beaming up at him, Miranda nods, which is a good thing. Shiro only barely makes out her, _“Of course, sweetheart. Thank you so much for volunteering to share”_ over the group’s applause. Her bangles, however, clang through the din like church bells.

The noise is still going strong as Shiro settles back into his seat by Mitch. He takes his styrofoam cup when Mitch hands it over and downs what’s left his coffee, barely appreciating the taste at all. It’s gotten closer to room temperature, so as Miranda asks how everyone’s feeling about what Shiro just shared and who might like to respond to it, he doesn’t quite get the warm relief that it was giving him earlier. Instead, he gets Mitch’s firm, heavy hand patting him on the knee.

“First thing, I want to thank you for volunteering to speak today, Shiro. I appreciated hearing your thoughts and feelings about this today…” Mitch says this out to the group. But he turns to look Shiro in the eye as he says, “However you’re feeling? I’m proud of you, son. For getting here _and_ for sharing it with us. And I’m so glad to be here with you for it.”

With a nod and another pat to Shiro’s knee, Mitch curls up his mouth in a genuine smile. Shiro feels like he could melt from the warmth in Mitch’s voice alone. The blush lighting up his entire face feels like Shiro could spontaneously combust and possibly enjoy it. Shiro’s glad that neither of those things comes to pass, though. Before they can, David’s hand perks up and he starts sharing how he’s been struggling with parsing through mixed feelings and conflicting desires himself, especially because he _wants_ to propose to his boyfriend but he’s been psyching himself out, wondering if he’d get turned down, worrying if he feels ready for that leap himself but also about what he might miss out on if he doesn’t…

Listening attentively, Shiro angles himself around so he can get a better look at David while he’s talking, and then at Amy on the other side of the horseshoe. Shiro doesn’t mean to nudge against Mitch, much less make Mitch feel a need to give him physical affection. Still, Shiro leans into the embrace when Mitch gives him a firm hug around the shoulders, and he smiles when Mitch squeezes at his arm.

Yeah, okay. Even with the ups and downs? Today is a really good day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, so, Shiro’s latest incredibly questionable life-choice is likely not all that subtle. It is, however, likely going to carry on for a while, so I’m just going to say it now: I am preemptively so sorry for him and his stubborn refusal to consider the possibility that his adorable, literally nearsighted ass might (read: totally does) need glasses.
> 
> ………I say, pointedly ignoring everything else that I should probably apologize for doing to him in this chapter.
> 
> If you want to see more with of Shiro’s backstory with Sendak, some of the things that Shiro references about it in this chapter are explored in more depth in the first side-piece I’ve written for this fic, **“[you’d kill me if you could stand the sight of blood](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12269214/)”** — but the majority of that fic is focused on incidents between Shiro and Sendak. It is ultimately a, “getting out of the bad situation, if not necessarily getting into the work of recovery just yet” fic, but it has several trigger/content warnings in its tags and A/Ns.
> 
> I’m fond of that fic, but it’s not for everybody, with the trigger/content warning notes it has. So, as much as I like it, I’ll also say that it’s not necessary for reading the main fic so much as it’s a supplement of, “Things I’ve worked out about this fic’s backstory and wanted to explore but couldn’t figure out how to give their full due in the main fic without risk of losing focus (especially since it’s hard enough for me to keep that to begin with) or derailing or getting everything too mixed up — but I still wanted to write these things, so I made a series and called it good.”
> 
> I mean, for an idea of how the side-pieces with this fic aren’t necessary reading? The next two that I have in mind to do something with are, “The saga of Lotor trying to get Shiro do BDSM with him when they were together, then actually feeling bad about it when he pushes too hard and learns _why_ his then-boyfriend had an interest in BDSM but didn’t want to do it with Lotor (brought to you by canon!Lotor and That Scene with the handcuffs in season four)”
> 
> —and, “Who wants to hear about how Antok and Kolivan first met, how they fell in love when neither of them intended to do that, and how they wound up being the ridiculously in love married couple that Kolivan never thought he’d ever be part of with anybody? Well, I wanna share their story. They’re such nerds, oh my god, I love them. (Not that I can talk, given how many ideas I’ve had about them while indulging in my own love of history, but… ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯)”
> 
> So, yeah. The side-pieces are nice flavor and I clearly like these pieces of my little AU world enough to want to write them, but you can totally read the main fic and enjoy it just fine without them. And now I’m going to click, “Post Without Preview,” run over to the pharmacy, and get back to finishing up the rest of what was supposed to be in this chapter. See y’all next time, on this same Bat-Channel. ♡


	14. Takashi Shirogane and the Grab-Bag of Frustration

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **me:** “I’m totally done splitting this chapter up”  
>  **me, a little while later:** “nah, there’s an awful lot going on in this, break it up and let the Slav stuff be a breather chapter before we get back to the feels with Keith’s POV chapter after that”
> 
> When will I learn to stop making estimates about how long certain things are going to run, word-count and chapter-wise? Current estimate says, “Probably never. The metaphorical cows will come home and I will still be struggling to grasp the bare minimum of this concept. But hey, here we are.”

Blissfully, most of Wednesday passes without much in the way of incidents. At least, not incidents that directly affect Shiro.

In the morning, Hunk sends Shiro off to work with two boxes of his cupcakes, one for Allura (“Half with strawberry filling and half with mint-chocolate ganache, I mean? You said she gave me options, so I wanted to try a few new things out”) and one for Mr. Phalen and his husband (“Baking helps clear my head, and I made too much, but they liked those brownies that I made for Lance’s birthday, so I figured they might like getting some cupcakes, too”).

As it turns out, Hunk is right about that, though Shiro would rather he’d been right in a different way. Instead, Mr. Phalen gets a call from his husband after lunch. The bug he’d been down with this morning has apparently gotten worse, and from the side of the conversation that Shiro hears, Mr. Phalen probably warned Mr. Aleš that this would happen. Either way, it’s no trouble for Shiro to hold down the fort and close up on his own tonight. Mr. Phalen did it for him yesterday, and the hours here are more like loose guidelines that neither owner nor employee stick to with much faithfulness.

Sometimes, Shiro feels questionably about that, but the shop’s doing well enough to stay open, and he likes it here. He likes the atmosphere, he likes the work, he likes his boss. When Mr. Phalen isn’t around and there aren’t too many other patrons, Shiro likes letting Lance and Pidge ride the sliding ladder down the shelf, singing _Beauty and the Beast_ and bickering over who gets to be Belle, the way Luxia never lets them do with the sliding ladders at the record store. So, if the wonky hours are working out for them, then maybe it’s not that a big deal. The handful of regulars who come in here know what they’re dealing with, and the non-regulars manage to find the time to shop there.

It’s early evening and Shiro’s checking out Nancy, one of the regulars, when the bell on the door jingles and Allura bounces in. Wearing modest heels and a cute, baby blue dress with a knee-length, swishy skirt, she has her hair tied back in a ponytail so voluminous, it looks like she has clouds coming out of the back of her head. She waits for Shiro to finish with Nancy before giving him a kiss on each cheek, then trails after him to the back-room. Normally, customers don’t get to see it, but Mr. Phalen’s not around and he probably wouldn’t disapprove. While Shiro gets the box of cupcakes, Allura sighs and tells him that she means to level no accusations about how his and Keith’s conversation went on Monday night.

“But our mutual friend is behaving rather _oddly_?” she says, following Shiro back to the front desk. “Actually, that isn’t entirely fair. He is behaving more or less like himself. Perhaps in a better mood than he has been in for some time? But there is still that air of expectation. Of very negative expectation? I can’t quite tell _what_ he’s expecting, but…?”

“It’s like he can’t believe that he feels okay and he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop?” Shiro shrugs and explains that it’s not a verbatim quote but Keith said as much on Monday. Then, he sighs at the two cardboard boxes of donated books still sitting behind the counter. “So, I don’t want to seem like I’m not taking this conversation seriously, Princess—”

Allura tilts her head curiously. “Why would I think that?”

With a shrug, Shiro hoists one of the boxes onto the counter. “I just wanted to ask if you wouldn’t mind?” he explains, taking out a handful of paperbacks. “Maybe talking while I put these away? And if that’s not a problem for you? Then please don’t ask about our organizational system here because it doesn’t exist. My boss _says_ it does but I’ve _never_ understood what he thinks he’s going on about with it? So I mostly improvise.”

Although she considers it for a moment, Allura nods and sets the box of cupcakes on the counter. She scoops up an armful of books with a smile and a prim, _“It might go faster with a little bit of teamwork, don’t you think? At least I can carry them for you, if you’d rather not try to explain the system.”_ Shiro can’t argue with that rationale, and anyway, Allura smiles at the thought of helping out with something. Getting assistance with shelving the books is better than when Shiro had to go through them on his own, fixing the little, neon-colored stickers to the front and scribbling prices on them with a golf pencil. Sure, he appreciates that Mr. Phalen trusts him and his judgment about guessing about how much each book should go for — never mind giving Shiro said trust when he’s so open to haggling with customers and can easily get talked into discounts — but it’s rather a lot of nerve-wracking responsibility to shoulder.

As he starts putting books on the shelves in whatever places seem amusing or maybe loosely appropriate if you squint the right way, Allura explains that she might, in this instance, truly be getting overprotective of Keith, rather than simply joking about it. But she isn’t certain, because he is normally so insistent on looking out for himself and putting up a fuss when people want to help him, especially when he feels as if it might put him in someone’s debt.

“There is not yet cause to see a pattern and I can admit that?” she says as Shiro puts a monster movie-inspired bodice-ripper between a biography of Greta Garbo and a bilingual collection of Pablo Neruda. “But I’m _concerned_? Especially seeing as — and I do not mean to look the gift horse in the mouth about this, but considering Keith’s _typical_ attitudes toward, well, _everything_? Especially about sharing himself?”

Allura sighs and wilts, slumping against the bookcase. “He’s letting me read the essay he wrote for Ryner. I didn’t even _ask_ , like I’ve done with some of the other pieces he’s written for her this semester? But he said that you’d read it, and that it came up between you two on Monday night?”

Shoving a pretty weathered, Naiad Press edition of _The Beebo Brinker Chronicles_ onto the shelf, Shiro nods.

“He and I are trying to do this thing where we don’t make assumptions about how each other’s feeling quite so often? Since that pattern has been at the root of a _lot_ of problems for us?” he explains as gently as possible, because Allura looks so deflated and her lips are pursed so tightly, and Shiro doesn’t want to make any of this harder for her than it already is. That’s about the only thing that makes it even remotely acceptable for him to say what he does next:

“If I had to hazard a guess, I’d say that the world didn’t end after I read his essay. And I still love him and want to be with him after reading it. So, now, he wants to share it with you. Because this lone wolf thing he tries to do isn’t really _him_. It’s what he’s used to, with the life he’s had, but it doesn’t make him happy. It’s making him miserable, and I’d _really_ like to hope that maybe, this is a good thing. Like, maybe he’s accepting that he’s not such a loner. But more importantly?”

Shiro gives Allura hopefully reassuring smile. “He’s opening up more because you’re important to him.”

Whether anything he’s said has bolstered her or not, Allura watches Shiro with the attentiveness of a scientist examining a possible miracle underneath her microscope. She sounds a mix of teasing and overly cautious as she tells him, “Keith also felt the need to ask me not to judge _you_ too harshly, in reading the essay? His preface had a few other points to it as well, but? He was quite emphatic about that one. And quite _protective_ of you, besides…”

“Do you want a run-down of what’s in it? Because I’m not proud of most of the things I did in the period that he wrote about, but I’m… Not always fine about admitting to them. But that’s one of the many things that I’m working on with my therapist, so…” Shiro shrugs.

Allura shakes her head, _“No”_ but thanks Shiro for the offer. “I only wanted your opinion on what this might mean about his emotional state?”

“Well, based on how he’s been texting and how he big-spooned me on Monday night? I think that he’s probably genuinely feeling better?” Huffing, Shiro worms three fingers between a pair of _Harry Potter_ paperbacks so he can stick a copy of Stephen King’s _Misery_ between them. “But based on a lot of other factors? I don’t think it’s going to last. Which is just… I wish it were easier to suggest therapy to him, y’know?”

“Unfortunately, I do. All too well.”

“Keith has _reasons_ for not trusting mental health professionals and I understand. I also _didn’t_ help when we were living in Chicago—”

“He was seeing someone in Chicago?”

“No, I was.” With a shrug, Shiro puts an annotated edition of _The Count of Monte Cristo_ next to a copy of _The Stars My Destination_. “My Aunt Satomi, my Dad’s sister? She was worried about me. With very good reason, though I didn’t think so at the time. So, she said she’d cut me off financially if I didn’t go see a therapist. I didn’t _want_ to. I wanted to believe everything was fine and I had it handled on my own—”

“If only we could make that so by saying it often enough,” Allura sighs and gives Shiro a small, tight smile of recognition, one whose message is quite clear. Maybe she isn’t a recovering addict, but she also knows how hard it can be to accept that you don’t have quite as firm a grip on everything as you think you do.

“Wouldn’t that be nice,” Shiro agrees, sliding a copy of _Naked Lunch_ in among some Harlequin paperbacks. “Anyway, my attitude toward the whole thing was flippant on a _good_ day. I might not have been full-on _wasted_ in Dr. Hall’s office that often? But I was always intoxicated, and I was a godawful little nightmare for her to deal with. Then, Keith and I’d complain about how stupid the whole thing was. Which I’m feeling didn’t do any favors for his already-poor opinion of therapy.”

“Perhaps not, but…” Allura tries to smile as Shiro looks at her, but it looks like she’s forcing that expression more for herself than anyone else. Trying to convince _herself_ that this is something they can handle. “I don’t know that the _why_ is quite as important as the fact that he’s… Well, I hardly want to say that he’s _sick_ , but in a way, isn’t he? We do call it, ‘mental _illness_ ’ for a reason, do we not? But he doesn’t — I mean, he can be so _stubborn_ , which isn’t always such a bad thing…”

She keeps going, while Shiro shelves the last book in his hands. Allura only trails off when he turns to face her. With a nod of permission, Shiro gently squeezes her shoulder, then takes the first book off the top of her stack.

“We’re here for him, Allura,” he says softly. “We are supporting him however we can, which is one of the best things that we can do. But you have to look out for yourself too, okay? Helping each other is important, but so is _self_ -care and in a way? Helping ourselves is _part_ of helping each other. And please don’t blame yourself about any of this. Keith being resistant about talking to someone is _not your fault_.”

Allura thinks about this for a long, quiet moment. As much as Shiro knows that they have more books to get through, he can’t shelf them while Allura’s making such a downcast, pensive expression. Not when she’s looking down at the books in her arm, rather than at Shiro. When she finally does look back up, her eyes are dewy and glimmering, but she’s smiling.

“You’re kind,” she says. “It’s at least reassuring that one of my favorite people is in love with someone kind.”

“I try…” Tucking his white fringe behind his ear, he looks for a place for this book on the shelf. “I don’t always _succeed_ , but…”

“Trying puts you ahead of most of the people I’ve ever had the displeasure of encountering…”

“Before we get too far off the subject of self-care, though?” The book fits in between a hardback collection of all the _Narnia_ books and an overwritten conspiracy theory about Jack the Ripper, and Shiro turns back to Allura. “D’you want a list of warnings for the essay or anything? I mean, Keith’s needs are important, but you seem like you’re dealing with your own stuff, too? And if reading his essay might be too much for you right now, I’m sure that he’d understand? Or at least I can tell you what to expect…”

Although she shakes her head again, Allura gives it some consideration before she says, “I won’t even have the spare time to read all of it until this weekend. But thank you for looking out for me when you shouldn’t need to.”

“It’s what friends are for, right?” Shiro takes the next book of the top of her stack. “I know that you were Keith’s friend first. And maybe we’re still feeling things out with each other, apart from how we both of us want to be together? But you’re important to Keith, so I at least want to keep it pleasant between us. And I like you, so I’d be happy to be your friend, too? If you want anything like that?”

“I’d like that very much, Shiro.” The smile is audible in her voice, but then she sighs. At least it isn’t particularly heavy. “In the meantime, with Keith? He and I will be getting dinner tonight, and I hope that he won’t mine spitting into a plastic vial for me.”

That gives Shiro pause, but in the face of his furrowed brow, Allura only shrugs. “I don’t expect this to fix anything for him,” she says softly. “But he wants to know more about his ancestry. Even if he never finds any of his blood family again… So, I ordered one of those kits to get his DNA tested? To see where it says his genes come from?” A shrug, and a wobbly but earnest attempted smile. “It may not be perfect? But I thought that he might like to know. As a birthday present?”

Mulling it over, Shiro takes up another book and looks for a spot where it can go. “I can see him having mixed feelings about it?” he supposes. “The, ‘Where do I come from, who is my real family’ question? It’s tied up in a lot of complicated things for him and he’s spent so long without any answers, or any real clue where to look for them… And I may not know this specific thing from my own experience? But I know how disorienting it can be to suddenly find answers that you never thought you’d get…”

That probably sounds fatalistic, though, so Shiro adds, “But at least one of his mixed feelings will likely be appreciative.”

“I hope so,” Allura sighs. “Incidentally, what do you know about his _knife_?”

“Not much?” Shiro grabs up another book. “It’s one of the only things that he has of his Mom’s, so it’s special to him…” Allura’s stack is winding down, he moves faster with shelving the next one. “He knows how to use it. Says she taught him a little bit about that before she left, but he doesn’t remember a lot about the scenes themselves…”

“Which would make sense,” Allura muses, “considering how _young_ he was…”

“He has a permit for it…” Another book gets put away. “At least, he did when we lived in Chicago. I made him get that. Same as making him register to vote…” As Shiro picks up the second-to-last one, he wrinkles his nose at Allura’s smirk and her arched eyebrow. “I know, right? Stellar example of having my priorities sorted out. ‘I got him a fake ID so he could come out to bars with us but it’s okay, I made sure he did his civic duty and voted.’”

“That wasn’t entirely what I had in mind,” she says, with a giggle. “I was merely thinking that you are quite a conundrum. More so than you might seem at a first glance. You were so terribly unwell, at the time, but still so responsible…”

“The knife-related responsibility had to do with one of the reasons _why_ I wasn’t doing so well,” Shiro points out. With the last book in their current round put away, he faces Allura and leans against the case. “Back in Chicago, I was in this absolute _mess_ , like a total _train-wreck_ of a relationship? With a guy Christian Gray would’ve taken notes from. He was an Assistant District Attorney with a lot of well-placed connections… He had a vendetta against Keith before I even realized that I was falling for him. After he started getting _really_ jealous, though, I made Keith get the permit for his Mom’s knife. So Maurice couldn’t…”

He doesn’t mean to trail off, but Shiro blinks at Allura’s frown and furrowed brow. “You okay?”

“Confused,” she clarifies. “In what way could your ex have inspired Christian Gray?”

“Oh…” Swallowing thickly, Shiro flicks his tongue across his lips, then bites back the urge to cringe at himself. He takes out his Dr. Pepper lip-chap and puts on a coat before explaining, “Maurice was abusive. He called himself a monster, and Lance — one of my friends, he plays bass in our band? Based on what he knows, which isn’t the whole story but it’s a lot? Lance says that calling Maurice a monster is offensive to actual monsters. Which isn’t entirely wrong. Or it doesn’t always feel that way—”

“Shiro, please. I didn’t mean to push, and you do not need to—”

“It’s okay, Allura. As okay as anything related to Maurice _can_ be, anyway…” Nevertheless, Shiro drags his fingers back through his white fringe with a sigh. “All I meant was that Maurice used BDSM to mess with my head. Because we were both into it, and early on, it was fun with him. He used it as a way to twist things around and convince me that he wasn’t abusing me. Which I didn’t want to admit anyway, even while admitting that he was dangerous enough that Keith needed to get a permit for his Mom’s knife so Maurice couldn’t come down on him for it or anything, but…”

A shrug, though Shiro doesn’t let his lips curve into a smile. He doesn’t let them so much as quirk. “My therapist says it’s not that uncommon? Acknowledging that your abuser is dangerous to someone else but still denying that they’re hurting you?”

“I’m sorry that you went through that,” Allura tells him gently. “But thank you for trusting me with it.”

“Thanks for making me feel like I could, Princess.” Shiro gives her a smile before pushing off the shelf and heading back toward the counter. Yet more books to shelf, after all. “But aside from what I’ve said? I’m in the dark about Keith’s knife.”

“I probably shouldn’t allow myself to dwell on it too much. I wasn’t even meant to…” Allura huffs as they pick up new stacks of books. But she still explains, “I overheard my Father and Coran, my Dad, talking about Keith’s knife last night. And about him generally, but… Coran seemed quite confused about the knife. He mentioned that it has certain Galran symbols carved on the blade. I don’t think he _recognized_ them, beyond knowing they were Galran…”

“Oh, _God_ …” Putting some dubious, gossipy-looking biography of Rock Hudson between a Doom Patrol anthology and a copy of _The Outsiders_ , Shiro groans. It comes out whinier and more frustrated than he intends, and he lets Allura know that it’s nothing to do with her or with the carvings being Galra, not exactly. Apparently, she didn’t think that it fit either of those descriptions, which is reassuring enough to let Shiro slip back into working while talking to her. But for all Allura smiles at him, he wants to give her something more than this.

“It’s just… I’m wishing my memories of Maurice’s place weren’t so scrambled?” Shiro offers as an explanation. “Like, there are some that I have near-perfect recall for? But others would be blank spaces, if not for my journals and what I’ve remembered thanks to songs I wrote back then… But I don’t know, if things weren’t such a mess for me, maybe I could help?”

“If it’s too upsetting for you, then you don’t need to explain anything?” Allura says. “But _how_ would those memories help?”

Shiro shrugs. “Maurice was Galra. His family was nobility before they left Daibazaal after the Russian Revolution. He had a ton of their heirlooms in his office and his study, some books on Galra history, the Galran language… There’s no guarantee, and I get that? But I felt like maybe, if I could pull something up that might help Keith?”

“Don’t stress yourself too terribly. Please, Shiro.”

As serious as she sounds about that, Allura giggles again when Shiro nestles a collection of HP Lovecraft’s stories between an anthology of critical feminist essays about science-fiction and little blue paperback called _How Animals Have Sex_.

But she’s back to the clear, prim tone, trying for an uptight, clinical sound and not exactly succeeding, as she says, “There’s no guarantee that anything you might remember _would_ offer any assistance with the matter of Keith’s knife. It could simply hurt you and accomplish nothing else. Galran symbols can be tricky to parse through if you aren’t incredibly attentive and familiar with them. They have incredibly subtle particularities and nuances of shape… There isn’t any sense in overextending yourself on that point, Shiro.”

Not that Shiro likes giving up on things, but Allura has a point. Pushing himself _too_ hard won’t help anybody.

Hoping to lighten the mood, though, he huffs. “Still sounds better than drinking nunvil…”

That earns him another giggle, albeit with more of an edge to it than he’s heard from Allura’s laughter yet. “Nunvil certainly can be an acquired taste. _Especially_ for non-Alteans,” she admits. “But if I may ask? Or if you don’t mind answering? Keith led me to believe that you weren’t acquainted with Altean history or culture?”

“I’m not familiar with it, exactly?” Shrugging, Shiro arches an eyebrow down at the guy-on-guy pulp paperback in his hand. The cover art is deliberately emulating an older, vintage style and doing so very well, even though the interior says that the book first came out in 1999. In the picture, two young bucks sandwich themselves around a purple-skinned alien. The human guys are a bit too generic macho clone, wannabe Captain Kirk knockoff-looking for Shiro’s tastes — though that could be the artist’s interpretation, or one that got forced on them by someone else — but the alien is gorgeous. Most interestingly, their visible arm lengthens, looking like a tentacle, and even in a still picture, it seems to slither around Macho Human Number One’s waist.

Shiro might need to come back for this one later.

For now, he shelves the book and tells her, “My most recent ex-boyfriend? His father is Galra, his mother is Altean, and he has, erm? _Complicated_ relationships with both cultures. Though not enough to _completely_ refrain from sharing parts of them with me?”

Allura hums in a way that Shiro can’t decipher. But before he can ask, she says, “You’re under no obligation to answer this if you’d rather not. And I do not mean to judge you at all. But when _did_ you try nunvil? It has a notoriously high alcohol-by-volume… In Keith’s less-than-humble opinion, it _needs_ to have that, otherwise no one would ever drink it.”

“Yeah, but it took me fighting for just shy of four years to earn my one-year sobriety chip.” He shakes his head as Allura tries to apologize, and offers her a smile. “It’s okay, Princess. I don’t mind saying that. Or part of me does but? I’m trying to work on it.”

“That’s admirable,” she tells him as he shelves a copy of _Our Vampires, Ourselves_.

“It’s… a lot of things. Complicated, I think.” Shiro wrinkles his nose at the last book in his stack, then skims over the back cover. It’s a history about some rebel group in Daibazaal, maybe Keith might like it.

Opening it to look through the table of contents and the bibliography, Shiro explains for Allura, “One of my slips off the wagon? Involved meeting my ex’s parents. They didn’t listen to him about me being an addict and trying to stay sober. His father terrified me until I choked down two huge glasses of nunvil out of politeness, and I thought I might keep it under control after that… But then I didn’t.”

From the look of things, Keith definitely might like this book. Shiro trades it for Allura’s stack and tries to make quick work of this. “After that dinner, though?” he says. “I walked away from it all understanding so much more about how long it took to make my ex believe me about being an addict, never mind take it any kind of _seriously_ …”

At Allura’s apology for what Lotor put Shiro through, he gives her a small smile. Not that he lets it stop him from his efforts, putting away the rest of the books. He needs to fill out a receipt for himself and put the cash for this book in the register.

“Thanks, Princess,” he tells her. “But it’s behind us, and my ex came around about my sobriety eventually. We were still bad for each other, but he was raised by a hardcore high-functioning alcoholic and her enabler. ‘Real pieces of work’ doesn’t go far enough. They full-on say things like, ‘Alcoholism isn’t real,’ even though she’s a _scientist_. My ex did a lot of things wrong by me. And I did a lot of things wrong by him. But sobriety-wise, he needed a chance to learn better.”

Which, thankfully, Allura seems to understand. Or anyway, she thinks about quietly it while Shiro checks the sticker he put on the cover of this book, then slips that and ten bucks extra into the cash register. He’s given out enough discounts without taking any hits to his paycheck for it, and Keith’s right to say that Shiro doesn’t need this job. Supplementing what he pays while he’s snagging for a little gift for Keith? That’s about the least Shiro can do.

As he’s filling out his receipt, Allura leans on the counter, nodding, and concedes that she may not know _exactly_ what Shiro’s dealing with from personal experience, but she appreciates the value of educating rather than condemning. Having been on both sides of that himself, Shiro appreciates her appreciation, in turn. Explaining that he likes snatching up books he thinks Keith might like is more pleasant.

But then something knocks against the door, and two voices pipe up outside—

“You cannot deny, ‘The Room Where It Happens’ forever—”

“I can, Acxa, and I _will_.”

Shiro cringes at the countertop under his elbows. He closes his eyes and counts to ten. He holds a deep breath for another count of ten, just for good measure, and tries to remember that today has been a good day. Yesterday was a good day. Monday was a difficult day with a pretty good end, and Shiro is _so lucky_ to be having this second chance with Keith—

“Musically, it’s one of the best in the entire play. The lyrics are so _subtle_ , too—”

“It is literally an, _‘I want’_ song,” Lotor whines, and Shiro can too easily picture what his ex’s face might look like, all scrunched up and sneering. “Hamilton tells the audience what he wants, as if he _needed_ another, ‘I want’ song. Then Burr tells the audience what _he_ wants. The only interesting thing about it is that Burr has been so central to the story and his, ‘I want’ song comes so late—”

Acxa groans, no doubt rolling her eyes. “Are we ignoring the intricate play of religious imagery throughout?”

“Saying, ‘Hate the sin, love the sinner’ as if it’s, ‘Don’t hate the player, hate the game’? _Opera_ has more nuance than that.”

“‘Dark as the tomb where it happens’? You _don’t_ see how that’s Christic? Foreshadowing Burr’s turn into Judas?”

“How can it be Christic when Hamilton was absolutely nothing like _Christ_? The man himself wasn’t. The musical’s version isn’t. And how, exactly, can Aaron Burr be Judas Iscariot when _each of them_ betrayed the other? If I thought the irony in that juxtaposition were intentional, I might feel differently. However, it seems to me it’s little more than a happy accident and that your inner English major is crawling out of her shallow roadside grave like the undead monster in one of Ezor’s B-list horror movies. Also, that song’s quality has been massively overstated.”

Dimly, this entire debate reminds Shiro of what happened when Ezor and Zethrid tried to get Lotor to watch _Arrested Development_. Rather, it reminds him of what he heard about that from Acxa, since it happened before he and Lotor had even met each other. But Lotor didn’t like that show or think it was funny because it reminded him too much of his own family for any sense of emotional distance. Maybe Lotor isn’t saying as much outright, but he rarely ever does. All of this sure sounds like a war-cry of, _“My parents were mean to me, and given my Father’s crushed political aspirations and his lifelong wish that Daibazaal had never been dissolved so that he could rule it, I refuse to concede to any positive points about a song whose lyrics could have easily come from his own mouth. You are my best friend, Acxa. You ought to understand this.”_

For now, though, Lotor spares everyone a dissertation and simply huffs at Acxa’s insistence on how good the song is. “It is only your favorite because it could serve as your personal leitmotif,” he tells her.

“You’re exaggerating,” Acxa says as the bell jingles on the door. “Anyway, ‘The Ten Duel Commandments’ is only _your_ favorite because you wish that dueling people was still a _thing_ that you could do.”

“I do _not_ pick fights with people that often—”

“You would try to fight the sun itself if we didn’t hold you back—”

Lotor groans over her as if he has a ready retort for this. Knowing him, he almost certainly does. But instead of making it, he gapes at the front desk while Acxa huffs away, trailing her fingers along the books lining one of the walls. He hunches in on himself, not so obviously, but clear enough for Shiro to see how he’s tensing up like an agitated cat. The sullen frown is the only thing that keeps Lotor from seeming like he could snap and attack at any moment. Folding his arms over his chest, he glances from Shiro to Allura, then back to Shiro. He opens his mouth as if he might say something, but purses his lips again all too quickly. That repeats itself a second time, then a third. He shakes his head as if this might rouse his wits again, or else banish the reality in front of him to somewhere else and exempt him from dealing with it.

Before he can get out a singly syllable, Acxa storms back to his side, sharp, electric blue bob quivering like the taut-pulled string of a bow. About Allura’s height but wearing combat boots instead of heels, Acxa only comes up to Lotor’s lips. Her normally anemic-pale cheeks flush crimson as she glares up at him and tugs the sleeve of his trench-coat. Waiting for his response, she rocks up onto the balls of her feet, then back down, then back up, leaning into Lotor’s space because she’s one of the only people who’s allowed such privileges. She doesn’t stop until he bats at her shoulder and oversized black leather jacket, then points toward the counter. Shiro says nothing and waves, _“Hello.”_ Acxa groans and stomps her foot like she’d rather punch a wall but knows that she can’t get away with it.

“I _only_ agreed to this because you said he wouldn’t be here right now,” she snaps.

Lotor sighs. “I _thought_ that he wouldn’t be.”

“What part of, ‘You need to pull a _Frozen_ and let it go’ _has not_ gotten through to you? Which part do you still need _help_ with?”

“I _did not know_ that Shiro would be here tonight—”

“Just like how you, _‘didn’t know’_ about their show on Pidge’s birthday? Or how you, _‘didn’t know’_ that he and Lance had tickets to see Katya—”

“Acxa, please,” Shiro interjects, holding up a hand as if this will do anything to calm the waters. It might not, but God, he has to try, doesn’t he? “I usually _don’t_ close on Wednesdays. My boss’s husband got sick, he asked if I wouldn’t mind tonight. Whatever you guys need today, Lotor had no reason to think that I’d be here.”

Lotor smirks down at Acxa like, _“I told you so,”_ but there’s something disconcertingly limp about it.

At least Acxa sighs in something like relief and settles down. “Your boss isn’t exactly fond of him either,” she points out, glowering. “I thought the only way we’d get in at all is if you weren’t here and I came to keep him in line.”

“While we are on the subject of mysteries?” Lotor points at Allura, who tenses. “Why are _you_ here, Duchess?”

“What business is that of _yours_?” Allura hugs herself, then sighs in palpable exasperation. “I came to see Shiro.”

“Wait, you know my ex already?”

Resting more heavily on the counter, Allura turns toward Shiro with an apologetic frown. “From what you were saying, I thought that I might? I rather hoped that I _didn’t_ , but…” She shakes out her billowing ponytail and pouts. “Coran works at the university. Dean Zarkon and Honerva used to be friends with my parents. Zarkon and my Father in particular… So, yes, Lotor and I are _somewhat_ acquainted.”

There’s a moment of silence, first long enough to make Shiro’s skin start crawling. Then, long enough to make his stomach lurch. Then, he’s on the receiving end of two arched eyebrows as Lotor and Allura ask in unison, “How are you feeling?”

He has to wait for them to finish glaring at each other in offense — _Yeah, right, because how very dare either of you ask a question that the other one wanted to ask… Like either of you has a patent on asking if someone’s doing okay…_ — but when they’re done, Shiro shrugs. “Right now, I’m feeling like Keith might have actually been _under_ stating all the potential sites of overlap between him and me, but…? It’s cool, I’m fine.”

“In fairness, we _are_ talking about subaltern communities with a high chance of overlap,” Acxa chimes in like she’s trying to hide in intellectualizing and rationalizations for everything, even if she has to skirt dangerously close to misusing words like, _“subaltern.”_ But with a curt shrug, she soldiers on. “The LGBTQ scenes in town… The Galra and Altean communities in town… Hell, if you were on Grindr, then the world would be even smaller for you still—”

“Shiro has significant _reasons_ for not being on Grindr, _migadi_ ,” Lotor points out. By his standards, it’s uncommonly delicate — it would be even without the little Galran endearment he slips in for her — and he leaves the explanation at that. He only shrugs when Shiro mouths a, _“Thank you”_ at him.

“Whatever.” Acxa shakes her head and straightens up. “I’m gonna look for Zethrid’s birthday present. _Behave_ with him.”

“Ugh, excuse us both, but I am not a _toddler_.”

Although she hesitates a moment, shrugging and arching her eyebrows at Lotor like, _“Could’ve fooled me,”_ Acxa sticks to her guns about not wanting to be involved in whatever might come up between Shiro and Lotor. Considering history here, Shiro can’t blame her for that, and it’s admirable how Acxa sticks to her convictions. She huffs back down the same line of books and only slows once she’s far enough away that she probably can’t hear any conversations at the register. Allura makes her exit next: checking her phone, she realizes that she might be late to dinner. She gives Shiro a hug around the shoulders and a kiss on the cheek. Box of cupcakes in-hand, she bounces out, then up the stairs and down the block.

Which leaves Shiro and Lotor to deal with each other, which is always easier said than done.

“How _do_ you know the little Duchess?” Lotor says and shrugs, trying to deny that he cares.

“She’s Keith’s best friend. We only met on Monday, but…” Shiro has to resist the impulse to shrug, hugging himself and slouching against the wall instead. “Is Duchess her official title? Keith calls her, ‘Princess.’ And they’ve both been insistent on how Allura isn’t technically a real princess, but they won’t explain or anything?”

“She might as well be a princess, coming from the House of Raimon. Depending on how certain inheritances shook out, she could have become a princess, which would’ve been a ruling position…” Lotor’s cowlick bounces, then droops over his eye. “But yes, if Altea still existed in any meaningful way, Allura would technically be a duchess.”

“And you’d be a prince, if Daibazaal were still around,” Shiro says off-handedly. “So, there’s probably some reality where you two are in an arranged marriage for the sake of brokering peace or solidifying alliances or… I don’t know, _something_?”

They call this, _“thought dropping”_ at meetings, and Shiro can’t think of a more accurate term for it. Whenever he manages to do it, whether he slips into it accidentally like right now or has to fight until he claws far enough out of his inhibitions to really do it, he _does_ feel like the thoughts are dropping out of his mouth more than being said. Not that he imagines this would offer much in the way of comfort for Lotor, who furrows his brow and lets his shoulders droop.

“Are you _truly_ feeling alright?” he says, in a soft way that Shiro rarely heard when they were together and didn’t expect to hear again now that they aren’t. “Or has your brother’s roommate been terrorizing you about alternate timelines and parallel realities again?”

“I haven’t had to deal with Slav recently, thank God…” Which isn’t what Lotor asked, and Shiro wilts before Lotor even manages to quirk an eyebrow at him. “I’ve been thinking about different outcomes on my own. Because of things with Keith. And I’m feeling more or less okay? In full fairness, though, it’s more like, ‘I’m not completely alright? But I’m also not _NOT_ -alright’?”

Lotor considers this, then nods. “Would you like me to wait outside until Acxa’s finished? The weather’s nice enough…”

Shiro thinks about it for a moment, then shakes his head. “As long as you don’t make trouble, you can stay.”

*** * ***

The problem with extending Lotor that invitation is the same as ever.

Namely: staying away from him is always a work in progress, and so is maintaining the resolve to do so. Tonight, Shiro settles onto the stool behind the register with his copy of _Giovanni’s Room_ and tries to ignore way that Lotor sulks down the side of the shop that Acxa isn’t looking at. He tries to remember that Lotor isn’t his responsibility, babysitting Lotor isn’t his responsibility, and he is under no obligation to put himself out there for Lotor in ways that make him uncomfortable.

It makes sense that they came here to find a present for Zethrid. She’s a fan of the offbeat and/or niche-interest bodice rippers that you’re not likely to find at one of the two Barnes and Nobles they have around here, at Kaltenecker U’s campus bookstore or any shops that cater more to their students and even get extra textbook orders, or at Marlowe and Associates, the wannabe Shakespeare and Company uptown. That’s all that Lotor wants tonight. He wants to find a nice gift for one of the only people in his life whom he trusts. No matter how much he’s doing a more than solid impersonation of a cat who distinctly did not appreciate being bathed, Shiro is going to leave him alone.

A pair of girls in Kaltenecker U sweatshirts come in and for a few minutes, they provide ample distraction. Unfortunately, when Shiro’s done helping them find some sapphic poetry for a class they’re taking, Lotor hasn’t moved from where he was when they came in. He hasn’t frozen or anything — he’s looking at books, putting them back and then taking out different ones; he even huffs at one of them in amusement and disbelief — but Lotor is slouching in the same spot and he might as well have a rainstorm building on his face. It’s a look that Shiro’s seen before, and invariably, it accompanied some incident that unsettled Lotor more than he wanted to let on. Too often, those misadventures tended to involve his parents.

Which is still no reason for Shiro to go out of his way for Lotor, except for how looking at him kicks Shiro in the stomach.

With a sigh, Shiro glances around until he spots where Acxa’s gotten off to. She’s far enough back that there’s no telling if she could overhear a conversation or not. The lack of other patrons could make that easier for her. Shiro’s not sure that he’ll want the potential intervention, but it might help keep Lotor honest, if not necessarily keep him from trying anything. Or it could keep him from trying anything, if not necessarily help keep him honest. Maybe there’s a chance that having Acxa around could do both, but betting on that in any way is too dangerous.

Before he can let himself reconsider, Shiro slouches to Lotor’s side and leans against the shelf.

Arching an eyebrow at the paperback in his ex’s hand, Shiro scoffs. “Don’t trust the cover on that one,” he says. “I think there’s only two sweet lady kisses stories in it. Maybe three? And one of them was written by a guy who… I don’t know what his deal is, but it reads like the literary equivalent of that super-exploitative girl-on-girl porn they make for straight guys. Zethrid would hate it.”

Thanking him for his input, Lotor shelves it again, but dedicatedly says nothing else.

“I have two questions for you, if you don’t mind answering? They may or may not be related to each other, but… That depends on your answers.” Shiro waits for Lotor to nod before asking, “First, are you okay? Feeling okay, I mean?”

Lotor shrugs and supposes that he shouldn’t complain. “Not that it has stopped me before. Also, I hate therapy.”

_Surprise of the century_ , Shiro keeps to himself.

Instead of saying the unhelpful thing, he points out, “How many sessions have you had so far?”

“Three,” says Lotor. He nods his way through Shiro’s recycled advice about being patient and letting therapy have time and space to unfold. “Acxa decided that I needed an extra session this week, which is where we were before coming here. She _also_ decided to accompany me, so that I did not attempt to skive off. Worst of it all, though, is likely what I did to poor Narti…”

There’s significance in the way Lotor trails off. Whether or not it’s bait, exactly, Shiro takes it: “What happened?”

“Last Friday, my Mother saw fit to summon me to her office for one of our little _tête-à-têtes_ , after which Narti met me for coffee. Which was especially appreciated, after Mother had been so entirely herself. Nothing out of the ordinary for us, but… Concentrated.”

With a huff, Lotor takes out another book and when Shiro agrees that Zethrid might like it, asks if he would terribly mind holding it. Shiro doesn’t, and Lotor wraps up, telling him, “After that nonsense with Hagnerva, Narti agreed to accompany me to family brunch on Sunday, after which I…? Somewhat took off her head. Metaphorically, I mean.”

Shiro arches an eyebrow. “If you’d literally taken off Narti’s head, I doubt we’d even be having this conversation.”

“We _could_ …” Lotor shrugs. “I could have escaped before Acxa, Ezor, and Zethrid exacted vengeance for her—”

“Fascinating, but not the point,” Shiro says, as bluntly as he can manage. “How bad was it? With Narti?”

“All she wanted was to check in on me after my Father had spent brunch acting…” He flicks his wrist like Honerva does, vaguely albeit in obvious agitation, waving his new possible choice for Zethrid so close to his face that he almost smacks himself in the nose. “It should not have bothered me quite so terribly in the first place. After all, he has _only_ spent my entire life calling me a black stain on the Houses of Mireth and Warsum. And _yet_ …?”

A sigh and a book put back. Edging down the shelf, Lotor shakes out his ponytail and trusts Shiro to follow. “All Narti meant to do was ask how I was doing after that. I had retreated to my room at our place and refused to see anyone. Ezor forced her way in briefly but only to make me turn down the volume on my amp. Acxa apparently had a migraine and could not come herself and ask me to stop going over, ‘The Man Who Sold The World,’ or to show more respect for the four of them while doing so if I didn’t wish to stop practicing one song ad nauseam…”

Without a sound, Lotor turns his gaze up to Shiro. He rolls out his shoulders like he’s trying to stand up straighter but can’t bring himself to manage it, or maybe he doesn’t have the energy. “Narti was acting like a friend, Shiro,” he says. “A _good_ friend. And yet, I _snapped_ and accused her of trying to spy on me for my parents. And I _wanted_ to fight… Her, Ezor, anyone who made themself convenient to me… If not for Zethrid’s timely intervention and the ease with which she can overpower me physically…?”

Which is… Well. That certainly is a lot to attempt addressing.

Rather than getting lost in his thoughts and letting the talk lag too much, though, Shiro hums. He shakes his head at a yellowed paperback novel that Lotor picks out. “You don’t want to get her that one. It’s well-written and it _does_ focus on the sapphistry that Zethrid likes? But the sex isn’t weird enough for her and then the story ends in tragedy. Not even, ‘Tragedy but one of the lovers is alive and moving forward’ like _Summer Will Show_. They break up over a horrible misunderstanding and they both die.”

“ _Ugh_ …” Lotor cringes, shoving it back on the shelf more forcefully than necessary. “Why does anyone even _write_ stories like that?”

“Why do _you_ write those Nick Cave, Bauhaus, and Brontë sisters-inspired nightmare-scape songs about all the times your Father ever made you wish you were dead? Why do I write my downbeat, minor-key sob-fests about the days when I’ve felt like, ‘I can eat more or less decently or I can be sober, but I can _not_ do both’?” As he tucks his white fringe back behind his ear, Shiro makes a noncommittal, pensive noise. “That sounded harsher than I wanted it to—”

“I didn’t think so. You could have done much worse.”

“That doesn’t make it okay. Even if you don’t mind it, I do.”

“Would you like me to leave?”

Although he shakes his head at first, Shiro listens when Lotor requests that he please give the question _actual_ thought.

“I still feel alright with you being here,” Shiro says, after a long moment. “I’m feeling like that response was bound up in a few different things, only one of which is you. So, even if _you_ don’t think that I was too harsh, I feel like I was unfairly taking other things out on you. Which is one of the behaviors that I mean when I say, ‘I don’t like the Shiro who I act like when we’re together.’”

Lotor supposes that this makes sense enough. “I did not mean to make you feel talked-over.”

“Well, I didn’t mean to snap at you.” Neither of them is exactly apologizing, which keeps Shiro from completely appreciating the way Lotor didn’t pull an, _“I’m sorry you feel that way.”_

But they have bigger things to address, and before they do, Shiro wants to clear it up: “I only meant to say that the novel ending tragically doesn’t make it _bad_? Or mean it doesn’t reach out to someone, or that it didn’t mean anything to the writer? Reading it may suck for _us_ , and it’d definitely suck for Zethrid, but? Who knows what someone else might get out of it?”

“What I am getting out of this turn,” Lotor drawls, “is that you are distracting us from the situation with me and Narti.”

“More trying to parse through my thoughts than anything. But that doesn’t mean you’re wrong…” And Shiro feels like it might bear bringing up with Ulaz tomorrow afternoon.

For now, though, all he can do is sigh and ask, “Do you want me to be completely honest or do you want me to be reassuring? Because I want to have compassion in either case, but I don’t feel like I can do both.”

Lotor considers this until after he gets Shiro’s recommendation on an anthology of lesbian vampire short stories. “Be honest,” he says, handing it over so Shiro can hold it for him. “If I cannot handle it as well as I think I can, then it will hardly be the first time that I’ve channeled Icarus.”

“You are not as bad as Icarus,” Shiro tells him without a thought to hold it back. “Most of the time when you ignore your Father, he deserves it. And he generally doesn’t have your best interests at heart when he tries to advise you on anything. Even when the advice itself isn’t necessarily bad.”

Still, that isn’t the important point right now. Shiro needs a moment to comb his fingers through his fringe, but once he’s settled his nerves enough, he says, “My first thought about everything with Narti? Aside from, ‘Well, that sure is a lot to deal with’? Was, ‘Wow, _really_. You don’t say. That is so completely expected. I might keel over and drop dead from how utterly, totally, and all up entirely _expected_ this is.’”

Lotor pulls a scrunched-up face like an irritated kitten, and doesn’t drop it when Shiro arches an eyebrow.

But Shiro doesn’t back down either. That expression’s made him feel guilty before, but right now, all it does is give him more motivation to tell Lotor, “ _Yes_ , part of your whole cluster of problems is egocentrism. But another big one is how you refuse to deal with your actual feelings and your _actual_ issues. Instead, you try to push them down, and put on one of the hundreds of masks of yourself, and pretend that everything is fine when it blatantly isn’t. So, things build up and sometimes, everyone’s lucky if all you do is garden variety drama-sowing. Ask me how I know.”

Rolling his eyes, Lotor sneers. “Because I did it to _you_? Because I have continued doing it to you even though you insist that we are never getting back together?”

“We _aren’t_ —”

“Then why even continue _dealing_ with this, if it _bothers_ you so? You cut _Maurice_ out of your life. Why not do the same to me?”

_God, you and Keith have more in common than either of you would want to admit_ , Shiro refuses to let himself say.

“Because whatever you think and however I’ve made you feel? I _do_ still care about you. Go back and forth on whether or not I wish I didn’t, but…” Shiro lets his head loll back against the bookcase for saying it, but he doesn’t smack his head on anything and he doesn’t scrub his back too hard against the shelf. He isn’t digging his nails into his palm. Not hurting himself to get through talking about this, not even the smaller ways that part of him still entirely doesn’t think of as self-harm — that’s progress and Shiro is allowed to hang onto it. He’s allowed to congratulate himself for getting there.

“Not wanting to be with you doesn’t mean that I want to stand idle by and let you self-destruct,” he explains. “And point of clarification? I did not cut Maurice out of my life, I cut _myself_ out of his. I ran. Deleted my Facebook, got a new phone and changed my number. But if he ever found me and showed up around here…?” A tense shrug. A shudder that Shiro doesn’t try to fight. “I don’t know what would happen or what I’d do. I don’t _want_ to know.”

“I’m sorry,” Lotor says softly, as close to gently as he ever manages. He doesn’t clarify what he’s sorry for, but he waits for Shiro to look at him before adding, “For whatever my opinion is worth? Regardless of what might or could happen if you ever encountered him in the flesh again, which I sincerely hope that you never do? I believe that you could beat him.”

“It isn’t really like that, but… Sentiment appreciated. Thank you.” Shiro hugs the two paperbacks to his stomach with one arm and rubs at the bridge of his nose, at his scar. “But in the interests of getting _off_ a subject that I don’t feel up right now and onto one that I _can_ discuss? I wasn’t trying to insult you or air grievances about how you acted in our relationship. I was going to say that I know you do the avoidance thing because I’ve done it, too. I _still_ struggle with doing it.”

Lotor sniffs. “Whatever approach you’ve found for yourself is clearly _working_ , though.”

_Oh my **God** … Somewhere, there is a reality where you and Keith are best friends_, Shiro pushes to the back of his mind.

“It’s more complicated than that. But right now, we are talking about _you_. I want to help you, if I can.” Maybe he can’t, but Shiro still takes a deep breath and tries to break it down for Lotor: “Fair, there are several differences between our situations? But a big one is that you haven’t gotten called out as often in your life as I have. Not that I always _listen_ when called out—”

“Well, at least Lance and I do not always make it easy to take our criticisms seriously.”

“That doesn’t make it okay for me to brush either of you off.” Shiro pauses to purse his lips and shrug at the book Lotor’s holding up, since he hasn’t read it and doesn’t know if Zethrid would like it or not.

Which is a moment that he needs to take, too, so he can get his head around all these things that he’s thought but kept to himself. “But with you? You’ve always been surrounded by people who treated you like your parents do, people who bullied and dismissed you in other ways, people who overindulge you for fear that we might come off like your parents, or your parents. You get called out _sometimes_? But those of us who care about you in a more or less positive way? We have yet to really make criticism stick in any meaningful way.”

“What does this have to do with me…” Cringing, Lotor flips his wrist again. “Sowing dramatics? Or whichever?”

“It’s about how you’ve made it to twenty-eight without learning how to handle most genuine emotions,” Shiro explains. “You don’t know what to do with them, but you still _have_ them. No matter which Lotor you’re pretending to be at any given moment, the emotions exist, and they build up. Some of them, you have outlets for and some of those _are_ constructive. Your music, for instance. But a lot of your other outlets are things like passive-aggression, manipulative mind-games, creating discord among other people, outbursts, and so on…”

Sighing, Shiro makes himself look Lotor in the eye as he says, “So, here we are, in yet another explosive downswing. And I want to be compassionate, because I know this is hard and I don’t want to hurt you? But I’ve seen this pattern in myself _and_ in you too many times before. I can’t pretend to be surprised.”

“You could _try_ …” A grimace spasms across Lotor’s pale, golden face, then deepens when he frowns at the back cover of a book he denounces as a sounding like shallow, hardcore smutty rip-off of _Flowers In The Attic_. “Honestly, you make it sound as if I’m some ticking time-bomb.”

“If the immaculately-kept combat boot fits… Or the well-worn sneaker, in my case, but…” Except that probably sounds harsher than Shiro wants it to do, so he’s quick to add, “The thing is that, by not _acknowledging_ the things you do that feed into these problems? You’re making it all worse for yourself.”

“Can we please move on to your second question?” Lotor quirks an eyebrow and points out Shiro’s deliberately misplaced _Naked Lunch_. “Assuming that the second question _exists_ and was not simply a ruse to make me tolerate this line of inquiry.”

Okay, Shiro’s allowed to roll his eyes at that. “Fine. Why did you take your Mother-related issues out on Keith last Friday?”

Lotor groans. “We had a perfectly civil discussion at Java Hut. Whatever he told you, things were not that bad.”

“Keith didn’t tell me anything. _Mitch_ did.” Shiro frowns when all this does is make Lotor blink at him bemusedly. Shaking his head, he tacks on, “Sorry. I mean Doctor Iverson.”

“Right, you know him in a different…” Trailing off, Lotor huffs. “Fine. I admit that I went into the conversation with your pet street rat fully intent on making him miserable. I had not yet seen my Mother and she was already doing the same to me. At your last show, he certainly seemed game to take my bait—”

“Yeah, thank you _so much_ for feeding him four shots of Patrón _Añejo_ , by the way,” Shiro deadpans, despite the better impulse in the back of his head, telling him to shut up and let Lotor speak. “It was so much fun, going home and thinking someone that I love had to get wasted to be around me. Which I assume was your entire _point_ , right—”

“I bought the shots and I put them in front of him, but _Keith_ is the one who _chose_ to drink them.” Lotor arches both of his perfect eyebrows like he dares Shiro to argue with him on this point — probably because he knows that Shiro _can’t_. With a flip of the cowlick, Lotor adds, “Besides, I had no idea that he was waiting for you specifically. I didn’t know he _knew_ you until he started drunkenly babbling—”

“He and I talked at the bar before our set started,” Shiro snaps. “I _saw_ you there—”

“Yes, because I wanted to be at your show. That hardly means I was _eavesdropping_. I didn’t see you up-close until _after_ you played.” Dropping an anthology of lesbian sci-fi BDSM on the stack in Shiro’s hands, Lotor glares at him. “No, I have not particularly enjoyed the notion that the only _decent_ boyfriend I’ve ever had is a recovering addict who feels like he can’t be around me without even more difficulty staying sober. But I was not attempting to make a passive-aggressive point to you when I gave your pet street rat said Patrón.”

“Can you _please_ stop calling him that? Keith is not my pet anything, he’s his own person.” But that’s beside the real point right now, and Shiro knows it without Lotor’s scoffing or the blush that sound kicks onto his cheeks. “Fine, point taken. I assumed wrong and accused you of playing mind-games without any evidence. I’m sorry. But what _were_ you trying to do?”

“Sleep with him? Get laid?” Lotor sneers as though this ought to be perfectly obvious. “I might want you back, but he was there and good-looking. He seemed intense, but in a different way than you. And I’d stretched the truth to Acxa and Narti about where I was going that evening. I thought that, if I brought him home with me, then I would at least stand a better chance of not getting caught in said fabrication. As well as having sex with someone intense and good-looking, which?”

Smirking like the edge of a knife, he taps a long, thin finger against Shiro’s chest, right above his heart. “Even if you _were_ the type to slut-shame me? I hardly think that you, of all people, can fault me for trying to have sex with Keith. After our chat at Java Hut, I can even see why you appreciate him so much in non-sexual fashions. He does keep you on your toes, doesn’t he?”

“Lotor…” _Do you have any idea what, “slut-shaming” even means, or did Ezor and Zethrid get you to watch, “Riverdale” with them?_

Okay, no, Shiro cannot let himself say that. Not unless he wants to escalate things further, and strictly speaking? He’d rather not.

“…I wasn’t going to say anything about the sex that you and Keith didn’t have.” _If I wanted to go there, I’d point out that you aren’t really doing a better job at respecting consent if you’re feeding people four shots of Patrón while trying to get them into bed with you. Even if they don’t throw the shots back like Keith did._

“But I do want to point out?” Shiro sighs. “You haven’t answered my question of _why_ you harassed him at Java Hut.”

“Ugh, what do you _want_ me to say, Takashi?” Lotor folds his arms over his chest but fails to draw himself up to full height.

Hearing, _“I want you to tell the truth”_ only makes him roll his eyes. “I wanted to annoy him because my Mother was annoying me. I wanted to bother him because I felt restless and he was _there_. I wanted to pick at him because he’s curious and I want to know how he works. I wanted to sow discord because I felt _jealous_ , but if it matters? Trying to make him jealous of _our_ relationship was the one piece of bait that he _didn’t_ take. I felt like destroying something beautiful. Pick the explanation that you like best.”

“You’re _allowed_ to have multiple conflicting emotions and desires. It happens,” Shiro points out. “But for the record? Pulling out _Fight Club_ doesn’t help your case any. Assuming that you have a case. It seems to be, ‘Stop confronting me with my destructive behaviors and trying to hold me accountable for them, even though it comes from a place of concern’? But then again, I might be reading too much into things.”

Lotor slouches at the hips. He scoots down the bookshelf and tries to look like he’s absorbed in the back copy on a book. But then he betrays himself by saying, “As ever, you play emotional buttons only marginally less well than you play your guitar. Why, exactly, do your friends think that _I’m_ the only one of the two of us who ever poked the other’s weak spots?”

“Because they don’t like you.” Why bother sugar-coating it? Lotor already knows this. Besides, the more important piece is the one Shiro adds, “Also, I’ve made so many self-blaming excuses for other people who’ve hurt me that they don’t want to listen when I say both of us contributed to our relationship turning into a train-wreck. Lance and Pidge tried to rationalize me emotionally kicking you with, ‘When Doves Cry’ because they thought it was funny, even when I told them that I did it to hurt you. Sure, Hunk’s done better than those two, Matt, and Ryou, but he still hates you.”

“Considering how difficult it is to make Hunk hate someone, should I consider this a badge of honor?”

“No, you shouldn’t. But I also don’t expect this to stop you.”

“Clearly, you expect _something_ …” Lotor holds up a book for Shiro’s input.

“Oh, yeah, that’s a good bet for Zethrid. It’s exclusively girl-on-girl, and it’s got all kinds of weird stuff like mermaid erotica and tentacles. She’ll probably love it.” But as Lotor puts it on the stack, Shiro sighs. “Look, as someone who cares about you? _Please_ leave Keith alone. For both of your sakes.”

Lotor hums pensively. “Yes, I can see how that might protect _him_ , but I fail to see what’s in it for me?”

“It’s more potential than an actuality for you, but…” Shiro shakes his head at the next book Lotor picks up, then tugs on his sleeve so he won’t turn away. “Even a few months ago, you wouldn’t have let yourself _feel_ guilty about blowing up at Narti. You would’ve run from that however you could. You have asked _multiple_ times if I want for you to leave. And I want to believe that this can go good places for you, if you let it.”

Narrowing his brilliantly blue eyes, Lotor asks, “How do you know that I am not attempting to misdirect you with mind-games?”

“I don’t,” Shiro admits. “I have plenty of reasons not to trust you. But I want to believe that you can get better. After everything that we’ve put each other through, I want better for _both_ of us.”

Lotor nods, but before Shiro can get ideas about interpreting that, Lotor begs permission to get in a question of his own, one that should settle an argument. It turns out to be, “Who did you have in mind when you wrote, ‘When You’re Away’?”

“Keith.” Which could all too easily derail any progress that they might’ve made tonight, so Shiro tacks on, “That’s why I couldn’t get it finished until after I dumped you. As bad as things got with us, I still felt awful for being with you and writing a love song about another guy.”

“Perhaps it’s petty, but I do appreciate that.” With a shrug, Lotor counts off the books that Shiro’s holding for him. But before Shiro can entertain any ideas about this conversation being over, Lotor just has to prod him with, “Would it be acceptable for me to talk to Keith if I mean to apologize to him? For mistakenly claiming that you wrote that song for me while he was drunk and I wanted to pick a pissing contest?”

“Please don’t. I think he still doesn’t get that and I want to tell him so myself. But also?” Shiro waits for Lotor to look at him before saying, “Baby steps, okay? Please trust me when I say that it’s a bad idea to rush things when you’re just starting to get a better handle on your own mental health. Cooperate with your therapist. And for now? Focus on doing better for yourself and making amends to someone who you actually _like_. And who you care about in a more positive way.”

“Meaning… Narti?” Lotor ventures.

“Well, Acxa, Ezor, and Zethrid, too.” Shiro huffs and gives him a smile. “But yes, Lotor. _Especially_ Narti.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *posts this quickly and then skulks off to finish the stuff with Slav, Ryou, and Keith*


	15. Takashi Shirogane’s Patience Has Died, so it goes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are again, with me preemptively apologizing for the characters. Slav probably gets the Most Frustrating MVP award for this chapter, but he’s also not the only one. So, I’m sorry for these characters and several of the life choices that I’m having them make. ♡

_[4:40 PM]: Ugh, please tell me something happy? ❤️_

_[4:41 PM]: “Something happy”_  
_[4:42 PM]: Sorry, that was such a you thing to say_  
_[4:44 PM]: Kolivan had his and Antok’s dog in class today? Rufus spent the whole period curled up by me and Shay, but mostly me?_

_[4:44 PM]: Awww, you have another new friend ❤️_

_[4:45 PM]: Yeah, I didn’t even have to bribe him with food to make him like me, like most dogs_  
_[4:46 PM]: But seriously, what’s wrong? Are you okay?_

_[4:49 PM]: Ulaz just got done calling me out for thinking too much about how things could’ve gone differently with us_  
_[4:51 PM]: Meaning, “all the ways I could’ve done more to find you” and, “all the things I could’ve not screwed up before”_  
_[4:52 PM]: Which was totally fair and I deserved it_  
_[4:53 PM]: Because I kept bringing it up and using it to deflect from other issues_  
_[4:55 PM]: So, Ulaz reminded me that thinking about alternate possibilities for the past is often unhelpful for me_  
_[4:56 PM]: Because I was getting lost in that instead of focusing on things in the present or near future_  
_[4:58 PM]: But before our session, I agreed to babysit Ryou’s roommate tomorrow_  
_[4:59 PM]: Ryou’s roommate who talks about alternate realities all the time and doesn’t listen when I ask him not to_

_[5:02 PM]: Ugh, I’m sorry, Shiro_  
_[5:04 PM]: At the risk of sounding like an asshole, though: why’d you ever agree to that?_  
_[5:04 PM]: I thought you hated Ryou’s roommate_

_[5:05 PM]: “Hate” is a strong word_  
_[5:06 PM]: It’s not always entirely inappropriate, but_  
_[5:09 PM]: Anyway, Ryou has an important meeting with their supervisors, then he has to make an equally important presentation in the name of getting them their grant money. But Slav’s first choice in accompaniment is busy and so is most of the fam_

_[5:10 PM]: And Slav really shouldn’t be left alone_  
_[5:12 PM]: Like he did okay the Sunday after our last show but apparently he had Sven over for a while_  
_[5:16 PM]: Sven being the first choice. He’s Norwegian, works with them, kind of a weirdo but in a good way?_  
_[5:35 PM]: Lance would like to add that Sven is also a good kisser and for some reason he feels that I am obligated to inform you that everyone thinks we look alike. Ryou, Sven, and me, I mean_

_[5:42 PM]: “No, what I said was to tell him that you three look so similar that the only reliable way to tell you apart is that you’ve got long hair and a scar on your face, Sven talks like the Swedish Chef sometimes, and Ryou’s chubby and never wants to make out with me for science” - Lance, just now, leaning over my shoulder and taking issue with how I’m typing things on my phone, in MY text messages_

_[5:44 PM]: Lance adds that the science in question is “very scientific”_

_[5:45 PM]: Lance, shut up and stop backseat texting_  
_[5:46 PM]: Let Shiro speak for himself_

_[5:47 PM]: Thank you ❤️_  
_[5:50 PM]: Anyway, point is that Sven can’t watch Slav, and Slav shouldn’t be left alone_  
_[5:51 PM]: Things tend to catch fire, explode, or be sacrificed to science when he is_  
_[5:53 PM]: Also Ryou is in a perpetually weird place with Sven so even if he weren’t busy, Ryou might be stubborn about asking him_

_[5:54 PM]: Yes. Because you of all people can judge Ryou for being stubborn ❤️_

_[5:55 PM]: I’m not judging, I’m just saying_

_[5:57]: Anyway, it’s nice of you to do this for Ryou but look out for yourself too okay?_

_[5:57 PM]: I don’t really get what Ryou’s issue is with Sven? He’s really not that bad_

_[5:59 PM]: Maybe Ryou’s jealous that Slav has another friend_  
_[6:00 PM]: Or maybe Sven just dissed Stephen King and Ryou won’t forgive him_  
_[6:06 PM]: Btw, how old is Slav?_

_[6:07 PM]: He’ll be 30 in January_

_[6:07 PM]: And he still needs a babysitter?_  
_[6:08 PM]: Jesus fucking Christ_

_[6:08 PM]: Basically yeah_  
_[6:09 PM]: Best case scenario is that he just forgets to eat all day, but that’s still not good_

_[6:11 PM]: Okay but does he forget to eat or does he “Forget” to eat?_

_[6:12 PM]: Genuinely forgets_  
_[6:13 PM]: He’s a space cadet, not deliberately restricting_  
_[6:15 PM]: Ryou’s making him a lunch in advance so I don’t have to, I just have to make sure he eats it_

_[6:16 PM]: You mean so Ryou will still have a kitchen when he gets home?_

_[6:17 PM]: Yeah, that too_  
_[6:21 PM]: How’s your application for Kolivan’s TA spot going? ❤️_

_[6:23 PM]: It sucks but mostly in a way where I need to ask him some questions on Monday_  
_[6:24 PM]: Like okay, having no teaching or assistant experience is apparently okay_  
_[6:24 PM]: And he already knows I’m usually not the best at tact and doesn’t mind_  
_[6:25 PM]: Well as long as I don’t mouth off to Zarkon or someone, he doesn’t mind_  
_[6:26 PM]: Since that would get me in trouble that Kolivan thinks I don’t deserve to be in_  
_[6:27 PM]: I just don’t know what kind of tone or approach he wants in some of these answers_  
_[6:28 PM]: Because I don’t think I can answer them in perfect honesty_

_[6:29 PM]: Why not? ❤️_

_[6:31 PM]: They’re getting into territory where my answers are things like, I don’t know?_  
_[6:33 PM]: “What I learned while sucking dick in a truckstop men’s room is…”_  
_[6:34 PM]: And then I have a few possible ways that I could end that_  
_[6:36 PM]: But still? The worst thing I ever did to make money was either that or selling my old phone_  
_[6:37 PM]: And I didn’t really appreciate how bad the latter was until recently_

_[6:38 PM]: It wasn’t bad for you to sell your phone, Keith_  
_[6:39 PM]: Maybe it wasn’t good either but you did what you felt you needed to so you could survive ❤️_  
_[6:40 PM]: Meaning emotionally but also having the extra cash_

_[6:42 PM]: Yeah I guess_  
_[6:43 PM]: Anyway apparently Rolo and Nyma are having me over for dinner_  
_[6:44 PM]: I got them peanut curry the day after I yelled at you and the fam, so it’s their turn_  
_[6:44 PM]: And I need to write more before you guys get here for practice_  
_[6:46 PM]: Let me know if you need anything while you’re with Slav tomorrow? I don’t have class or plans or whatever_

_[6:47 PM]: As you wish ❤️_

_[6:50 PM]: Right now, I wish that you’d been kissing me just now instead of Beezer_  
_[6:51 PM]: Especially since you don’t slobber all over everything like Beezer_  
_[6:51 PM]: But promises like that will go a long way too_

_[6:54 PM]: Swing downstairs if you want to later_  
_[6:54 PM]: Battle of the Bands is next weekend but I can still kiss you goodnight if you want ❤️_

_[6:56 PM]: Unless dinner makes me sick, I definitely want_  
_[6:57 PM]: Text me or yell up when you get here?_

_[6:57 PM]: Sure thing ❤️_  
_[7:03 PM]: And let me know if you have any ideas, okay? About squaring it up with your essay?_

_[7:05 PM]: Will do_  
_[7:06 PM]: But just so you know?_  
_[7:07 PM]: I think I’m glad you read it_  
_[7:09 PM]: Yeah, asking first would’ve been polite and I was thinking about showing you anyway_  
_[7:11 PM]: Especially since you have a starring role and everything so it’s just fair to let you see?_  
_[7:13 PM]: But at lunch with Allura on Tuesday, I realized I probably wouldn’t have shown you on my own_  
_[7:13 PM]: So then we never would’ve talked like we did_  
_[7:15 PM]: Or anyway we might’ve taken longer to get there and built up who knows what else_  
_[7:16 PM]: And it’s better that we talked_

_[7:17 PM]: I feel happier having talked about it too ❤️_  
_[7:18 PM]: But still not so great about reading everything behind your back_

_[7:18 PM]: And I know telling you this over text isn’t really great form or whatever_  
_[7:19 PM]: And you’re gonna be down here tonight anyway_  
_[7:20 PM]: But then I could rationalize my way out of telling you_  
_[7:22 PM]: “Sure he’s here but don’t tell him anything, just go get a kiss and then let the band practice in peace”_  
_[7:23 PM]: “Stop even thinking about it, Shiro doesn’t need you bothering him with this garbage, leave it alone”_  
_[7:24 PM]: “Keep it to yourself, it’s better that way”_

_[7:25 PM]: fwiw, I don’t feel like you’re bothering me_  
_[7:26 PM]: And I don’t feel like your feelings are garbage_  
_[7:27 PM]: Thank you for telling me, however you’re most comfortable with ❤️_

_[7:27 PM]: Comfort isn’t the word I’d use_  
_[7:29 PM]: Call it preempting any chance I’d have to be a coward and not tell you_

_[7:31 PM]: You aren’t a coward, Keith_  
_[7:32 PM]: You’re a survivor, which maybe doesn’t always feel as strong or brave as people make it sound_  
_[7:34 PM]: But you are strong, and you are brave, but you don’t have to be either of those things all the time_  
_[7:35 PM]: They don’t stop being true just because you get scared or feel weak or need somebody to lean on ❤️_

_[7:36 PM]: I love you_  
_[7:38 PM]: And I’m not ignoring you after this, I’m hungry and Rolo just finished making us dinner_  
_[7:40 PM]: Please text or shout up when you get here?_

_[7:40 PM]: As you wish ❤️_

*** * ***

For all he doesn’t want to be up and at’em earlier than his usual on Friday morning, Shiro only lets himself hit the snooze button once. He got a shower last night after practice — mostly so he could sleep longer, but partly to calm down because Keith swung downstairs for a second round of goodnight kissing and _really_ threw himself into wrecking Shiro’s mouth to within an inch of both their lives. Now, he makes quick work of putting together a sandwich for breakfast. Hunk rouses while Shiro’s finishing half of it and waiting on the coffeepot. Before letting Shiro head over to Ryou’s, Hunk insists on giving him a hug for luck. Because he knows that it won’t really have any direct effect on anything, but it makes Hunk feel better and maybe it’ll give Shiro a nice little shot in the arm, too.

Not that Shiro usually has a mind to argue with Hunk’s hugs, but even if he did? He couldn’t find a hole in that logic.

“Look, man,” Hunk tells him, squeezing Shiro around the shoulders as if work is the only reason he wouldn’t come with and play the role of conversational buffer today. “Whatever Slav gets up to? As long as you do your best, it’s not your fault. And if he upsets you, then you’re allowed to get upset. Just don’t, like, totally take his head off or anything, okay?”

“It’d be easier if he made any effort,” Shiro mumbles, thought dropping before he can get any ideas about holding back. It earns him a warm sigh of sympathy and a firm pat between the shoulder-blades that wants to be a smack for Halloween. “Sorry, you’re right, and I’m not trying to judge him or whatever ‘cause I _know_ this isn’t easy? Even if it weren’t, I’m in no position to be judging him? But _Jesus God_ , his attitude is like? And his habits are, then? And it just _drives me so_ …”

Shuddering, he clings harder at Hunk’s shoulders. “It’s just Slav.”

“Yeah, man, I know. I’m right there with you…” As Hunk pulls back, though, he turns up the sunshine on his smile. “But you’ve been doing so good lately, and I believe in you, and Keith has a day off, _riiiiiiiiight_? So, try to clear your head on your walk, and if Slav gets really bad later and you can’t deal anymore? Then you can always call your _booooyfriend_ …”

The sing-song way Hunk teases out that last word is cute. The gossipy way he beams at Shiro and flutters his eyelashes is cute. The way he drops all of that and blushes when Shiro kisses his cheek and says, _“Focus on your own romantic feelings instead of mine, okay, Hunkules?”_ is downright adorable, though Shiro does need to apologize for pulling that out on him. Hunk, apparently, knew that Lance told Shiro about their talk, but after he’s offered that unrequested piece of advice, Shiro feels: A. like a hypocrite, considering how long he’s failed at even remotely following that kind of rule; and B. like he might’ve hit below the belt.

At least this is all a sufficient distraction from something that, in Shiro’s mind, distinctly isn’t cute. Namely, the fact that he and Keith are in love and they want to be together, but they still haven’t exactly discussed what to call their relationship.

Not like the Facebook designations matter here, since neither of them has one. But the word, _“boyfriend”_ is kind of a big deal. It might represent a level of commitment that Keith doesn’t want in his life, no matter how much he wants to be with Shiro. He might not believe in the boyfriends thing anymore, or he might feel like right now isn’t the best time for him to have one, or however you slice it, Keith might not want to use that word about himself and Shiro. Worse, he might want to be Shiro’s boyfriend and assume that Shiro _doesn’t_ want to be his in return. He might feel terrified, and convince himself that he doesn’t _deserve_ to be Shiro’s boyfriend, and refuse to let himself consider that, “boyfriend” absolutely was included as a potential relationship status for them when Shiro told him, _“If you ever wanted to be with me, then I’d be proudly yours.”_

Vaguely, it occurs to Shiro that it would strain credulity for Keith to hear that and _not_ get that Shiro would love to be his boyfriend.

Then again, both of them have thought similarly about each other more than their fair share. Which leaves Shiro in no position to judge or to make assumptions about how obvious his intentions were or weren’t.

Adjusting his earbuds, Shiro turns up the volume on his red mp3 player, the one that houses what Lance has dubbed his, _“Keith Playlist,”_ and flounces through the crosswalk to the tune of Dolly Parton’s, “Baby, I’m Burnin’.” The, _“To boyfriend or not to boyfriend”_ issue isn’t on the table today unless Shiro makes Keith deal with that, and Keith might not be up for it.

Frankly, Shiro doesn’t know if he could handle that discussion today, either. Maybe it’s been a good week for him, overall, but it’s also been intense. Plenty of great things mixed with a downright emotional roller-coaster and no matter how much he’s enjoyed the positive side of things, Shiro’s allowed to feel kinda tired. He would be allowed that even if there hadn’t been quite so much going on, but in light of how eventful things have been lately? It’s okay for Shiro to admit that he doesn’t feel up to another full-throttle Heartfelt, Emotional Conversation right now, today.

Sooner or later, yes, he and Keith will need to cross that, _“So, are we each other’s boyfriend or what?”_ bridge. For now, it’s enough that Shiro even has a second chance with Keith, much less one where asking that question is more than a starry-eyed daydream that Shiro only lets himself entertain when Keith’s absorbed in a book or napping or otherwise preoccupied. Maybe they’re still in the unfortunately nebulous realm of, _“It’s complicated”_ — but at least they’re on a different cloud from before, one where they want to be together and both of them know it. Maybe that’s not an earth-shattering big deal, but it doesn’t _need_ to be. It’s a huge deal for the two of them, and it means so much to Shiro, just thinking about it makes him feel like, any minute now, his chest might explode with warm fuzzies.

As he rounds a corner onto Oakwood, his playlist shuffles onto Redbone’s, “Come And Get Your Love.” Shiro doesn’t notice that he’s singing along until someone nudges his arm at the next crosswalk. At least the tall, broad-shouldered, dark brown-skinned older guy smiles in the face of the blush that blooms on Shiro’s cheeks. Shaking out his silvery-white ponytail, he says that Shiro sings well, and he only wanted to point out that he was, in fact, singing.

“You seemed rather caught up in the moment,” he says with a shrug. “Someone special in mind, or do you just love the song?”

“Someone _very_ special,” Shiro admits, probably going candy apple red all over again. “And it’s a good song, yeah? It was one of my Mom’s favorites, but… Mostly, I was thinking about him. My guy. Who’s, like? He’s passionate, and he’s clever, and loyal, and just…? I love him so much and I’m _so lucky_ to have him, y’know?”

“I do know indeed that feeling,” says the older guy, smiling and holding up his left hand. A simple, golden wedding band glimmers under the pale, morning sunlight. “Congratulations. To you and your young man, both.”

Right as Shiro thanks him, the light changes and he has to scamper. Unfortunately, nice as this moment is, Shiro has a promise to go keep.

*** * ***

When he bounces through Ryou’s door and toes out of his sneakers, Shiro’s lost in listening to The Cure’s, “Just Like Heaven.” As he sets his messenger bag and reused Stop-N-Shop bag of Diet Cokes and a half-sandwich on Ryou’s kitchen table, Shiro sees his brother’s lips moving and nods along. But once he’s pocketed his headphones, he has to admit that he has no idea what all he was just tacitly agreeing with and would Ryou terribly mind repeating it for him.

Ryou sighs impatiently. “I _said_ , ‘It looks like _somebody’s_ in a good mood this morning’? Or was it just good music?”

“Uh, yes, both? Or, well…” Shiro hums and thinks it over. “Good mood came first, then the music made it better.”

“Hmm. Does the good mood by any chance involve someone named _Keith_?”

“Maaaaybe?” Shiro’s face twinges with another blush as he rubs the back of his neck. “He came down to see me at practice again last night. Twice. Things happened, kissing was involved… Lance told us to keep it PG-13, Keith flipped him off, and _both_ of them laughed about it…”

Shaking his head, Ryou chuckles and puts on the coffee. “I told you he didn’t hate you, Kashi.”

Shiro grins. “Yeah, well. That’s why I’m the genius twin and you’re the twin who has common sense.”

While Shiro cracks open one of his cans and puts the others in the fridge door, Ryou makes a whiny, noncommittal noise.

Pressed about it, he supposes that all up, yes, his Kashi’s right about which of them has more of which kind of intelligence? But Ryou isn’t feeling so hot about the presentations he has lined up today, and the grant money, and securing the grant money, and they really, really need to make this happen. He set out his clothes last night, after haggling with himself about them for an hour — an eternity, in Ryou-time, when it comes to anything involving his appearance. Yet, he needs Shiro to give him a second opinion on whether or not everything looks okay. It’s black slacks, a white button-up, and a black blazer. There really isn’t anything to it that’s half as complicated as anything Ryou spends most of his days working on. Still, Shiro helps himself to a seat on the edge of his brother’s bed and agrees that the outfit should be fine, and if it isn’t when Ryou gets it on, then he has his twin here to help him pick out something new.

As he fumbles about putting on his shirt, Ryou acquiesces that collaborating with Sven makes sense enough, as much as he’d rather not do it. He knows the science and even with his often ludicrous-sounding accent, he’s better at social situations and improvising than Slav has literally ever been, for as long as Ryou’s known him—

“And Sven’s never gotten strung out on coffee and Adderall, then done unspeakable things to public fountains in the name of science,” Shiro points out with a shrug. At the time, he wished that he hadn’t been sober for that incident. Now, he just wishes he could forget about it. “If only he could provide your roommate with a positive influence about managing himself, then _your_ life might be idyllic. One might even use phrases like, _‘halcyon’_ or, _‘salad days.’_ _‘Perfect,’_ even.”

Ryou doesn’t sigh or groan. He only briefly stops sucking in his belly and gives Shiro an expression that screams, _“Not now, Kashi.”_

Wilting, Shiro agrees, “Fair enough… I’m sorry. Just trying to lighten the mood.”

“Not the best time for your snark, right now. At least not _that_ version of it.” Once he has the buttons over his middle done up and his shirt tucked into his slacks, Ryou adds on, “Anyway, it’s not going to be funny until I get over being afraid that you still feel like maybe my vision of a perfect life doesn’t include you. Which I don’t see happening anytime soon, no matter how well you’re doing. Which is _great_ , and I’m so happy for you, but… All the same?”

“Also fair enough. I mean, I’d feel the same way, in your shoes…”

Shiro huffs, not at the topic of conversation, but at Ryou floundering through trying to do up a necktie. Nerves must really be getting to him, if he’s having trouble with that today. Gently, Shiro taps at Ryou’s wrist and takes over knotting up the accessory. He frowns, though, as he realizes what’s on it: a simple black tie with a slightly faded embossing of Mickey Mouse at the bottom.

“Is this Dad’s?” he asks, holding up the end, which lets him see Mickey more clearly and with a bit less squinting.

Ryou nods. “Does it look stupid? Or too old? I just…” He shrugs, pouting at Shiro like he’s afraid of who-even-knows what. Disapproval or rejection, most likely. “These grants are _so important_ , right? And I have _no idea_ what we’re gonna do if Sven and I don’t land them for us? It’s huge that our supervisors even trusted us with this project, and I _can’t_ afford to mess this up, and I… I dunno? Putting on Dad’s tie last night, I felt more like I wasn’t going to ruin all the work we’ve done? But it’s okay, you can tell me if it looks dumb or if you don’t want me wearing it…”

He doesn’t stop babbling until Shiro pulls him into a hug and nudges their foreheads together.

“It looks fine, Ryou. You look great.” Another forehead-nudge, and a small smile as Ryou clings to his shoulders. Not so much because of what the clinging means, but at least Ryou’s being open enough to let himself do it. Rubbing between Ryou’s shoulder-blades, Shiro tells him, “If it helps you get through this and do your best, then wear the tie. Even if I objected — which I _don’t_ — that’s what _Dad_ would want, okay? He’d want to help you out however he could, even if it’s a small thing like loaning you a tie so you feel like you have a piece of him there with you.”

Nosing at Ryou’s hair, Shiro kisses the top of his head. “You should’ve told me this last night,” he says. “I would’ve brought you one of Mom’s necklaces. You could easily hide them under your collar. Or hey, some of them are pretty gender-neutral so you wouldn’t’ve—”

He gets cut off by a snort, laughter, and a swift thwap on his bicep. When Ryou pulls himself up, he’s struggling to repress a grin.

Shiro doesn’t bother; he just smiles back. “There’s my favorite brother.”

“I’m your _only_ brother.” Ryou snickers.

“Oh, all the more reason for me to be protective.” Shiro boops Ryou’s nose. “Or make you smile, as the case may be.”

“These _Lion King_ lines don’t mean you’re gonna start singing ‘Be Prepared,’ do they? Because I love you, Kashi, but don’t think I’m up for it?”

Shiro shrugs. “I had it on my list of possibilities? But it’s only one idea and I’m trying to be more flexible. As long as I help put you at ease before your big day and I don’t get bogged down in what Ulaz called me out on yesterday, I’m good.”

Ryou furrows his brow and as Shiro helps him into his blazer, he asks, “Wait, what about Ulaz calling you out?”

“I deserved it. I was deflecting instead of answering his actual questions.”

“So, sorta exactly what you’re doing now?”

“Yup. But I wanted it to be clear that I’m listening to him.” Shiro smooths out the slight wrinkles around Ryou’s shoulders, then fusses with his lapels. “I was getting bogged down in all these things with Keith like, ‘If I’d done _this_ differently, then maybe I would’ve found him sooner. If I’d made _this_ different choice, then maybe we could’ve had all this other time together _while_ on the same page about being in love with each other. Maybe he could’ve _helped_ get me away from Maurice and into rehab. Maybe I could’ve helped keep him from being so lonely and isolating himself as much as he has. What if this, what if that, what if, what if, what if’…”

With a shrug, Shiro concludes, “Basically, I was beating myself up about other possibilities, not dealing with what’s actually in front of us.”

“Well, it’s good you’re _acknowledging_ it, but…” Huffing, Ryou glances back over his shoulder.

Then, he turns on his heel and heads for the other bedroom.

“Oh God,” Shiro groans, tailing after him. “Ryou, please, this isn’t necessary… Come on, just ‘cause Ulaz said that _doesn’t_ mean…”

Too late. Ryou’s already rapping on Slav’s door, right on the idiot’s poster of Albert Hofmann. He gets no response and Shiro briefly holds his breath in hope. Maybe he’s going to get out of this _without_ dealing with an early morning Slav who’s been woken up before he wants to be awake. Maybe he’s going to escape putting up with a Slav who hasn’t had food or coffee (or his meds, but that’s always hit-or-miss with Slav, given his alleged _“philosophy”_ about them), but also isn’t currently engaged in consuming any of these things. Maybe Shiro is going to get luckier than he has already been in the past few weeks.

Except Ryou decides to knock harder. Behind the door, someone whines, and Ryou announces that he’s coming in.

Mostly, this means that he opens the door enough for Shiro to see into the mess that Slav’s made out of the place where Shiro used to sleep, when he lived here. Sure, he prefers to call it, “creative chaos,” the hovel he’s thrown together with scattered stacks of books that overflow the shelves, Lego and K’nex structures in varying states of (de)construction, pin-boards whose contents have differently colored strands of yarn tying them together until the whole thing looks like kids who got tangled up while trying to play Cat’s Cradle, small trash-can by the bed that looks like it hasn’t been emptied in a few weeks, miniature dry-erase boards and oversized notepads full of incomprehensible scribblings about timelines this and alternate realities that, ball-and-stick models that don’t resemble any molecules that have (as yet) been found and documented in this reality, and colored pens and highlighters sticking out of random places while Slav keeps a collection of dubious-looking used toothbrushes in a cup on the desk, mixed up with his pencils.

Shiro, on the other hand, prefers to call the state of Slav’s room exactly what it is: a heap, a dump, and in all possible ways, a mess.

The only pieces of the room that _aren’t_ in disarray are the immaculately-kept posters on the walls (another of Albert Hofmann hangs by the window, a blown-up picture of Doctor Manhattan brooding on Mars and a poster of Ian McKellen and Michael Fassbender for _X-Men: Days of Future Past_ sit over the desk, and right above Slav’s headboard, a black-and-white photo of Timothy Leary grins out at the world like he’s feeling exceptionally pleased with himself — which, based on everything Shiro has ever read about that jerk, he almost certainly was), and the bed itself. Technically, the bed _does_ look rumpled, but that’s only because it’s currently occupied, with the overstuffed comforter and jumble of miscellaneous blankets all wrapped tight around a long, whining, wriggling mass. While Ryou goes to crouch by Slav’s bedside, Shiro folds his arms over his chest and leans against the door-frame.

Ryou nudges at the mass until Slav shoves some of it down enough to let the world see his face. Even half-asleep and without his glasses (currently sitting among the books, pens, and notebooks on the on the bedside table), Slav’s eyes bug out of their sockets by sheer virtue of how huge they are. For once, his black hair concedes to gravity, drooping over his face instead sticking out at all angles. He blinks owlishly as Ryou pokes that beaky, aquiline nose and grumbles something that Shiro can’t even hear, much less decipher.

_Step one: Keep it cool_ , Shiro tells himself with a huff.

“Just wanted to say I’m heading out,” Ryou says. “Kashi’s here. He’ll be around if you need anything while Sven and I—”

“I do _not_ consent to being anybody’s experimental guinea pig,” Shiro pipes us.

He cringes, choking down a groan. He thinks, _Failed step one_.

Another whining noise rises out of the bed as Slav props himself up on one elbow. He rubs at his own cheek and says, far too matter-of-factly, “That is not on the table in _this_ reality, Takashi. My research does not currently require any human subjects, so you do not—”

“Because you’d never get your proposals through IRB if any of them _did_?”

Squinting bemusedly, Slav regards Shiro as if he’s arguing with a toddler. “Too many humans cannot begin to fathom the work that Ryou, Sven, and I are doing. Their usefulness as research subjects is limited because they cannot comprehend it.” A yawn, then a look that approximates a glare. “Also, their physical beings are far too bound to the material of _this_ reality—”

“Because it’s the only one that we can _access_ , how do you not—”

“Alright, _alright_!” Ryou interjects and sighs. He casts a _Pointed, Disapproving Glance_ over his shoulder at Shiro before telling Slav, “Kashi’s only here in case you need somebody. There’s a lunch for you in the fridge, second shelf from the top. He won’t disrupt your work.”

_Why would I **want** to?_ , Shiro keeps to himself, fighting back a roll of the eyes.

“But his presence _is_ another factor—” Slav cuts himself off with another, deeper yawn, then shakes his head. As he sniffs at nothing in particular, his hair flops back into its usual position, askewing itself all over his face like a bedraggled mess of spider legs. “—Another factor that I need to consider, for the potential effects it could have on our _work_. In thirty-five percent of realities, I end up requiring his assistance and he refuses. In fifty-eight percent of realities, he _can’t_ give it because our work upsets him too terribly. In eighty-two percent of realities, there is even a _sixty-eight-and-a-half percent chance_ that he upsets the delicate balance by losing his temper because in those realities—”

“Because in a hundred percent of realities, you are _five_ -hundred percent dedicated to _never_ compromising with _anybody_?”

As soon as he says it, Shiro winces. Not like he can pretend that he didn’t mean what he said or how he said it, but he _did_ want to hold it in because at this point, he ought to know better. Sometimes, the only way to win with Slav is to simply refrain from saying anything and let him tire himself out. But Shiro’s voiced his objections and can’t take it back, and when Ryou sighs at him like, _“Are you even **trying** right now? Because, personally, brother? I am **not** convinced,”_ Shiro knows that he’s earned it. Hugging himself tighter and leaning harder on the door, Shiro mumbles a halfhearted apology. Slav drags a hand back through his hair and huffs like he can tell that Shiro only cares about placating Ryou (who definitely can tell and narrows his eyes, unimpressed).

But it’s Slav who breaks the silence: “Don’t be ridiculous, Takashi. There is no way to predict _anything_ with the kind of metaphysical certitude that you’re suggesting, even within one reality. No one can propose to speak of hundred-percent probabilities when we speak in poly-universal terms—”

Ryou sighs, “Slav, _please_ —”

“—There exists an infinite amount of potential realities, including some that lack even the most fundamental things we take for granted—”

“Well, in this reality, right here?” Shiro bites out. He doesn’t need a manifesto from Ryou about what the point was supposed to be in waking Slav up early, and one of them needs to say it already. “In _this_ reality, my therapist advised me not to get so wrapped up in wasting thought on the potentials of _other_ realities. He says doing that makes it easy for me to get lost and never deal with what is going on in our own reality. Which is bad for me and I’d rather not do it.”

Slav snorts as if any of this is actually funny, arching both eyebrows as if he’s just heard someone propose a sitcom allegedly based on _Anna Karenina_. Smirking at Shiro in a way that’s likely meant to be enticing, he says, “This does not need to be a reality in which you _listen_ to your therapist—”

“Slav!” Ryou gasps.

At first, all Slav does is shrug like, _“It’s not my fault that the world is like this, what else do you expect me to say?”_

That gets him glared at by both twins, which earns them the unmistakable groan of someone who doesn’t believe that he has any obligation to clarify what the in Hell he thinks he’s babbling about, and can’t believe that he’s being held accountable for saying something obnoxious.

Mussing up his own hair with one hand, Slav explains, “In ninety-two-and-five-eighths percent of realities, including and _especially_ this one? Therapists, psychiatrists, psychoanalysts, and all of their motley ilk? Are little more than agents of mediocrity. As brilliant as the present company is, none of us should allow our lives to be dictated by some hack with a degree in garbage.”

Shiro hunches his shoulders so he can tighten the hug he’s giving himself, gripping onto his own elbows for dear life. He sets his jaw and tries not to grind his teeth. Maybe he’s succeeding, but maybe not. It’s hard to tell when he can hear his heartbeat racketing around inside his ears. But he makes himself keep breathing deeply, refuses to let himself dig his back against the edges of the door-frame or scratch at his own palms. Grimacing, he has to will himself not to bang his head against anything, but that’s easier when he catches sight of Ryou’s knuckles going white from how he’s balling his fist up in Slav’s comforter. Not that Shiro _wants_ Ryou to feel this level of annoyance with his best friend, especially not when he has to get going and has a big day ahead of him. But at least Shiro’s not the only one.

For his part, Slav doesn’t seem to notice any of this. He glances from Ryou to Shiro, back to Ryou, back to Shiro. When he shrugs, Slav might as well be holding out his arms and daring them to come at him with everything they’ve got.

“Hmm, no objections? Either of you? Anything?” he says when they don’t take him up on that, huffing in something that sure sounds a lot like disappointment. “In eighty-seven-point-three percent of scenarios in ninety-five percent of realities, at least one of you has _something_ to say when I attempt to start a debate in the name of verbally dismantling the entire destructive institution of _therapy_.”

“Just because we don’t vocalize it?” Shiro points out, voice low. “Does _not_ mean that we have nothing to say.”

“Well, who does that help, Takashi? Don’t therapists advocate _against_ holding things back?”

“Within _reason_ , yes. There’s a time and a place for some discussions, and it’s not wrong to think about that.” Which is where Shiro ought to cut himself off. But before he can stop it, his mouth tacks on for him, “Or what? Do you _want_ me to babble like, ‘I’ve had absolutely filthy sex dreams about my therapist’ in the middle of your next conference? In the middle of the _mall_?”

Letting his forehead thump on the mattress, Ryou sighs, “Oh my _God_ , Kashi…”

Slav shrugs again, with the same _“come at me”_ swagger. “You clearly need to discuss them with _somebody_. Why hide them?”

“Because I don’t want people I don’t know to _judge_ me for them!”

“Wasn’t it _you_ who told me that therapy promotes having more open conversations, though?”

“Yes. With people who need to be involved in them. _Not_ with random strangers at the mall. How does that _not_ make sense?”

“It makes sense. But it doesn’t sound very open-minded of you, Takashi. A stranger at the mall could help you, if you allowed them—”

“ _Slav!_ ” Ryou smacks the bed and drags his face out of Slav’s blankets. “Kashi wants to listen to his therapist because Ulaz has been helping him. Right now, Ulaz says he needs to give less thought to alternate realities or timelines, and more to _this_ timeline in _this_ reality. He’s only here to help out, and the likelihood of him affecting your work in this reality is minimal, at best. _Please_ respect that alternate reality talk isn’t good for Kashi right now. I know that you can do this, so stow your objections to therapy and rein in the alternate realities. _Please_.”

Rolling his eyes, Slav slouches. He rolls onto his back, only slightly propping himself up on his elbows. In silence, he glares at Shiro, then at Ryou, looking for all the world like the disgruntled little kid who’s just been informed that he isn’t allowed to burn down his uncle’s garage in the alleged name of science. Possibly the eleven-year-old who feels personally victimized by the fact that he is, in fact, expected to apologize to his cousins for misappropriating their Play-Doh, then dismembering their Barbies and their X-Men action figures to make his own ball-and-stick models of something that, according to him, was so next-level, he couldn’t explain it to their family in any way they could comprehend. Maybe even the nineteen-year-old second-year PhD student who has to choose between mandatory therapy sessions and expulsion, even if he couldn’t yet know that he’d find himself in similar positions while doing his second and third PhD’s, then again when he finally got a job.

Dimly, Shiro wonders how Slav hasn’t yet hit rock bottom enough to get a rude wake-up call that leads to him getting his life together or at least putting in the bare minimum of _effort_. There are so many possibilities, and smart money is on the perfect storm of Slav’s undeniable intelligence and people feeling too sorry for him to call him out. But at least Ryou clearing his throat at Slav drags Shiro out of his own thoughts, too.

“I thought there was a better chance of you _appreciating_ that sentiment,” Slav says, glowering at Ryou and looking like the physical manifestation of petulance. “I’m _trying_ to say that genius like your brother’s deserves _better_ than the arbitrary, prescriptivist nonsense limitations that they teach in psychology programs, the _Diagnostics and Statistics Manual_ , and medical school. _He_ deserves better than all of the self-abasing garbage that they peddle in therapy.”

“Ulaz isn’t like the therapists you’ve had to see, and Kashi’s experience with him is not the same as _your_ experiences.” Ryou sighs and combs his fingers back through his hair. “Look, I have to get going or we don’t get our grant money. Just _please_ promise me that you’ll respect Kashi’s wishes about the alternate reality talk, and you can go back to sleep.”

Slav groans, but when this doesn’t get him anywhere, he says, “Alright. I will try.”

It’s a good thing that Ryou drags Shiro back into the common room before he can make a crack to the tune of, _“Do or do not, there is no try.”_ But as soon as Slav’s door is closed again, Shiro has his brother clinging to his shoulders again, taking slow, deep breaths like it’s a Herculean effort for him not to scream right now. Nuzzling at Ryou’s hair and hugging him back, Shiro sighs softly.

“You’re okay,” Shiro tells him. “I’ve got you, and you’ve got this today, and you are okay.”

“He is _**so** intransigent_ ,” Ryou grumbles against Shiro’s neck.

An, _“I told you so”_ probably wouldn’t help right now, so Shiro kisses his brother’s temple instead.

“I get that his experiences with therapists have largely sucked, but for _God’s sakes_ … They aren’t universal, he should _get that_ …” Pulling himself up off Shiro’s shoulder, Ryou butts their foreheads against each other. “How’re you doing? D’you want me to try begging Ezor to come over for him instead?”

Shiro cringes. “Pretty sure your ex would _destroy_ Slav. In really unhelpful, non-constructive ways. So, unless you _want_ to clean up a non-functional human puddle that used to be your best friend…?” With a forehead-nudge and a smile, he says, “I’m feeling… not _okay_? But also not terrible? Anyway, Keith doesn’t have class today and he already told me to shoot him a text if I need anything.”

Ryou huffs and tries to smirk. “Please don’t have your nooner on my couch, okay?”

“I wasn’t even _thinking_ about trying to get in his pants today, but duly noted.” Shiro pecks Ryou on the cheek. “Get a move on. Go, be great.”

*** * ***

Shiro gets maybe an hour to himself and it almost lulls him into thinking that he might get out of today without actually needing to deal that much with Slav. He sets himself up on the sofa that he just promised not to use for sex, curling into one of the armrests with his sketchbook. His Diet Coke and oversized mug of coffee are immediately on-hand, and his messenger bag sits on one of the empty cushions. Conveniently, Ryou’s laptop is on the coffee-table, right next to Slav’s little orange pill bottles. Since Ryou never signs out of Netflix, Shiro sets the computer up to play through reruns of _Parks and Rec_ , starting with the gay penguins episode. That should be inoffensive enough, shouldn’t cause any problems or interfere with anything. Shiro enjoys the show, if not quite as much as Lance, and as far as he knows, Slav doesn’t mind it.

By the time Slav finally shambles out of his room and into the world of the waking, Ann Perkins is putting Leslie Knope through the world’s worst practice date and Shiro’s gotten a good way into a doodle that he rather likes. At first, he’d only meant to draw Keith’s Red, because there’s something about her that steadies Shiro’s nerves, even if she isn’t his old imaginary friend. Before too long, though, he’s adding a black lioness and has her tangled up with Red, licking the scruff of Red’s neck. It’s sketchy and rough, but Shiro likes how it’s shaping up.

He arches an eyebrow as Slav settles in the armchair, curling up his legs and perches on the edge of the seat. That, in and of itself, is nothing really noteworthy because if Slav is sitting down, then he is almost definitely perching. It also isn’t odd that he’s apparently decided that pants are how the evil therapy demons get inside you, even pajama pants. At least, that’s what Shiro gets out of how Slav’s only wearing his boxers and an old t-shirt with the cover art from _Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band_. It’s downright normal, by Slav standards, that he has to be nudged three times before he rolls his eyes and takes his meds with coffee from the souvenir stein that Ryou got at the Hofbräuhaus on the spring break trip he took to Munich during his third year at MIT.

But the plate precariously balanced on Slav’s pointy knees has an slice of triple-layer chocolate cake with whipped cream and probably-strawberry drizzle. The thing’s size makes it worse. It’d need to be Shiro’s birthday before he’d even think about splitting a slice that big with someone.

When Shiro tries to ask about it, all Slav does is shrug, shove a forkful into his mouth, and say that they occupy the reality where he decided that he wanted cake for breakfast. Which is both obvious and, true to Slav’s form, massively unhelpful. It’s a mathematician’s answer, technically correct but about as useful as a typewriter to a chimpanzee. Shiro isn’t sure what’s worse: Slav’s refusal to answer questions in a way that helps anybody but himself, or the way he moans like a bad porno on _every. single. bite._ of that freaking cake.

“Why do you even _have_ cake in the fridge?” Shiro lets slip out after the fifth round of this, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Slav adjusts his glasses and shrugs. “This is also the reality where I stopped at the bakery last night and bought cake.”

“You don’t have your funding yet,” Shiro points out. “Ryou and Sven are still getting it for you.”

“Yes? I’m aware.” Scraping his fork along the ceramic, Slav explains, “Based on the parameters of our current reality, and based on the work that your brother, Sven, and I have done to prepare them for today’s presentations? They have a ninety-three-point-four percent chance of securing the grants for us. There is also a twenty-seven-and-eight-ninths percent chance that Ryou and Sven will dazzle the committees so much that they award us with extra funding. But of course, that’s just an estimate.”

It’s like talking to a brick wall. Except the brick wall might provide better conversation and less of a headache.

Shiro sighs. He leans his head back on the cushion and counts to ten in his head before letting himself ask, “If there’s still a chance that Ryou and Sven _won’t get the grants_ , then why are you preemptively celebrating?”

“Who said anything about _celebrating_?” Slav squawks. When Shiro frowns at him, he clarifies, “I just wanted chocolate cake, Takashi.”

“Yeah, but there has to be, like? And if you don’t have a _reason_ , then…”

All of a sudden, the words die in Shiro’s mouth. He had more of them. He meant to keep going. But he swallows thickly, then huffs. He stares down at the images on the laptop because he can’t look at the cake right now. Looking at Slav is even worse. When Shiro tries to do it again because that’s polite, Slav arches an eyebrow and smirks like he knows exactly what he’s doing — and even if he weren’t a genius, he’s shooting his plausible deniability in the foot. He takes his next huge bite of cake in slowly, wrapping his lips around the fork and sucking on it, whining and groaning as if he’s having an orgasm. Humming contentedly and narrowing his eyes, he gives Shiro a Cheshire Cat smile that begs Shiro to take the bait and get angry, so that Slav can have a free excuse to be even more himself than usual.

Unfortunately, there is a point to this and Slav makes it annoyingly clear: once again, Shiro is attaching too much emotional significance to food. He’s mentally valuing some things — like chocolate cake, for instance — as overly special, and treating them like treats he’s only allowed to have on special occasions. Or maybe as rewards for meeting some standard or another that, historically speaking, Shiro never meets because anytime he closes in on the alleged finish line, his mind moves it and trips him up. The worst part is, he can’t even pretend that Slav’s wrong or that the point he’s making isn’t valuable.

Grumbling, Shiro doesn’t even try to hide the way he rolls his eyes. If Slav’s going to be a jerk, then Shiro’s allowed to get cranky with him. “Kicking me in the eating disorder is _not_ going to make me agree with you about therapy,” he says.

“Who’s kicking you anywhere?” Slav faux-protests, with that obnoxious _“come at me”_ shrug. “I’m just eating cake for breakfast.”

“You’re _just_ pulling a stunt. You are _just_ making me regret telling you _anything_ about what I’m dealing with.”

“And you’re just attaching significance to my actions that I certainly would _never_ intend.”

“Maybe I’d actually believe that,” Shiro says, “if I hadn’t told you before about how I have an eating disorder.”

“I don’t see why _your_ struggles have anything to do with _my_ cake.”

“Oh, you _don’t see_ how rubbing my face in your cake has _anything_ to do with what I’ve told you? Or with Ryou asking you not to needle me about food? Or with…” Shiro groans. He wants to put his sketchbook aside and hug his legs to his chest, but he isn’t going to let himself hide like that. Not when Slav might decide to see that as either victory or an inroad to get there.

Instead, Shiro huffs. He combs his fingers through his white fringe and tucks it back behind his ear. He flips to a new page and without putting his pencil back to the paper, he says, “Telling you about any of that was an act of trust. Ryou and I _both_ trusted you take what we told you and _not_ do things like this.”

“I am a _scientist_ ,” Slav points out smugly. “Discerning different approaches and trying them is my _calling_.”

“I am _not_ an experiment. Or an observational study. Or a game for you to toy with. I’m a _person_.”

So there can be no mistakes or missed nuances between them, Shiro looks Slav dead in the eye to tell him, “About the only reason this little stunt of yours isn’t grating on me as badly as it would’ve done when I’ve been at my worst? Is that I’ve learned better ways of dealing with my feelings and managing my problems. Know where I did that? In _therapy_ , Slav. It _helps_. It helps more than whatever you think you’re playing at. No matter how right you think you are.”

“I _know_ that I’m right,” Slav says without a moment’s thought. He moans around another bite, then adds, “Based on observation of your behaviors, I can say with near-perfect certainty that you wouldn’t be getting so tense if I weren’t right about _something_.”

Shiro purses his lips and can’t keep his eye from twitching. “I’m getting tense because you’re kicking me somewhere _sensitive_.”

Which Shiro shouldn’t be saying.

Rather, he should find a different way to say it, and the inside of Shiro’s chest twists guiltily because he _knows_ that he should have a better way of expressing this. Feels like someone’s tightening ropes around him and dragging them along his skin. As tedious as, “I” statements can get sometimes, they generally help more than anything that might sound like an accusation. Except using them with Slav tends to make him feel like he doesn’t need to take responsibility for his own words and actions. Shiro’s hands tremble, sending enough ripples through his coffee that it’s a miracle Shiro doesn’t spill any of it. His fingers clench so hard around his pencil, he can’t so much as roll it without fear of snapping it in half by accident. His whole face heats up and his throat burns. Whether it’s with protests he could make or bile clawing its way up, Shiro can’t tell.

Making everything so much worse without saying anything, Slav smirks and waggles both of his thick, black eyebrows. As he scrapes up a bit of frosting that’s left on his plate, he doesn’t take his eyes off Shiro, not even for a second. The ball’s in his court and Slav should damn well _say something_ , but apparently, he isn’t going to right now.

Shaking his head, Shiro groans. He has to lean his head back and look at the ceiling before he can get his mouth around the words: “If you’re trying to get me to open up to you again? Maybe _talk_ about why I’m uncomfortable? You’re doing it in the exact _wrong_ way.”

“Opening up to anybody is _always_ a risk, Takashi,” Slav tells him. “In most situations, in the majority of realities? You expose yourself to small-minded people who comprehend nothing. All they do is judge and condemn and _pathologize_ without putting in the effort to understand any of your experiences. They do even less than the bare minimum and then blame _you_ for their own failures. Or they blame you for your resistance to their ideas for how they want you to be. In _nearly_ all situations, of course. Because we cannot attempt to have any complete metaphysical certitude, _especially_ not when people decide to be entirely themselves.”

Slav’s abrupt turn toward this sober, matter-of-fact tone is eyebrow-raising. The lack of exact numbers in his half-baked, off-the-wall guesstimates gets Shiro to look at him again. When he does, Slav’s still poking at his cake, but he’s hunching in around himself and letting his hair flop over his eyes in a way that sets Shiro’s skin crawling. Maybe it’s not quite as bad as it could be, but the feeling of tiny insect legs wriggles around through his arms and down the back of his neck. Everything about Slav is making Shiro feel like he just kicked a puppy. It’s bad enough to feel like that with anybody, but it’s worse when he _knows_ that he hasn’t been trying his best to get along with Slav.

Has Shiro been trying? Yes. Is there more that he could do, though? Sadly, also yes.

“I’m sorry that _you_ have had such bad experiences with therapy before,” Shiro offers. Somehow, he manages not to groan, but as long as he keeps pulling that off, Shiro isn’t going to question it. “But in _my_ experiences? My problems have gotten pathologized _because I was unhealthy_. Dangerously so. I don’t know about you? But I’m okay calling what I did to myself unhealthy.”

Slav shrugs, but there’s something defeated about it. “That’s your prerogative.”

“Yeah,” Shiro huffs. “And I’m asking you to _respect_ that prerogative. Stop taking _your_ issues with therapy out on _me_.”

“Why are you so _resistant_ to an alternative perspective? What do you have to fear from another point of view?”

“Is that what we’re calling it? Because your, ‘alternative perspective’?” Jerking his fingers in air-quotes probably isn’t making Shiro look like he has anything together, which _can’t_ help make any of his points — but it steadies his nerves, so he does it anyway. “All I’ve gotten out of your _alternative perspective_? Is that you hate therapy so much that you can’t stand letting me just work with Ulaz and get help from it in peace. Relative peace, anyway.”

Around a mouthful, Slav counters, “That alleged work hasn’t improved your attitude toward chocolate cake.”

Shiro kneads gently at his temple. He tries to keep his breaths deep and slow, reminding himself that he isn’t obligated to tell Slav anything. In his own defense, though, Shiro bites out, “A few years ago, I would’ve been making myself vomit for even _considering_ that I might want some of your cake.”

“You’re welcome to it, if you do. Call it the glorious cake of the proletariat. It is people’s cake.”

“Not the point, and not how Communism’s meant to work, but… Thanks.” Shaking his head makes Shiro’s white fringe droop over his face and he blows at it, even knowing that he has too much hair for that to really help. Leaning on the armrest, he says, “Point is: I’ve made progress with therapy. That progress is important to me. _Respect_ that already. _Please_.”

Slav sighs from the deepest pit of his chest, as if he’s the only one who’s being disrespected here. To be fair, Shiro could do more, but at least he admits that today’s antagonism has definitely been mutual. On the other hand, all of this semantic nonsense doesn’t matter quite so much as what really happens. Slav shuts up and digs back into his cake, which gives Shiro a bit of breathing room. His coffee’s gotten lukewarm, so it doesn’t calm his nerves quite as much as it could, but the smell of it remains familiar and taking a deep whiff gets Shiro breathing easier. Not as easily as he _could_ be breathing, but he’s feeling pretty close to the best he ever gets around Slav.

Draining the mug means Shiro can get himself a refill, and normally, he’d mind that Slav didn’t bother putting on a new pot after emptying the first one. Today, though, Shiro’s grateful for the tedious process of finding where Ryou put the filters and scooping grounds. He knows the motions so well that going through them has a meditative quality to it. They don’t clear Shiro’s head completely, but once he has the coffee percolating, Shiro finds himself with more space to unpack some of his feelings and get himself grounded in something positive.

Leaning against the counter and hugging himself gently, Shiro tries to focus his thoughts on his gratitude. He’s right about his progress, not exaggerating to make himself feel better or to let himself off the hook for dealing with his problems, as he’s done more times than he wants to count before. Even if Slav doesn’t believe in therapy, _Shiro_ knows that it has helped him. This entire week is proof of that, from talking to Keith to opening up in group to this entire day so far. Shiro could be doing better with Slav right now, he knows that, but he hasn’t completely lost his cool — and to be fair, Slav isn’t making it easy. Maybe he could be doing a lot worse, but Shiro isn’t in the mood to hand out metaphorical, congratulatory cookies because Slav’s decided to do only slightly less than the bare minimum instead of being a living nightmare.

But still, Slav’s attitude problem and its causes (as far as Shiro knows) do point toward another thing to be grateful for: Shiro’s lucky to have Ulaz. He’s unspeakably fortunate to have a therapist who’s kind and helpful and attentive, who respects him and doesn’t try to push Shiro into graduate school (like Aunt Satomi still wishes he’d consider) or to give up on his music for something, “better,” who’s seen Shiro at so many low points and believes in him anyway. Shiro could’ve wound up with someone conservative or homophobic, or someone who judges him for being an addict instead of trying to help him understand and deal with it, or someone who’d look at the eating disorder diagnosis Shiro got in rehab, then dismiss it out-of-hand because their new client is six-foot-three and muscular and, most notably, male. Instead, Shiro has Ulaz, and Ulaz unshakably _believes_ in Shiro, no matter how many panic attacks, flashbacks, or crying jags he’s had to talk Shiro through, no matter how many times Shiro’s admitted to purging or getting drunk or feeling like he needed to dump Lotor but not wanting to do it, no matter how difficult Shiro has been about his meds.

True, Ulaz may not have seen Shiro at his worst exactly — because, thankfully, for all the desires and ideation he’s expressed, Shiro hasn’t been actively suicidal in Ulaz’s office before — but he’s heard about it without Shiro couching it in his lyrics, and Ulaz has heard more detail than anybody else but Ryou. This, too, is something to be grateful for. Not since it happened has Shiro felt so low that he’s tried to overdose on purpose, gotten roused by an unexpected administration of naloxone and all but dragged into a shower by his hair, and broken down sobbing because Maurice had the razors on lockdown and beating his own skull against the wall wasn’t a real option, not when Maurice would intervene and it would’ve only made him angrier.

_Perhaps this may not be an accomplishment for other people_ , Shiro tells himself in a mental voice that sounds more like Ulaz (calm, and deep, and safe, and solid) than anybody, but with a twist that reminds Shiro unmistakably of his Mom. _But you cannot judge yourself or your own progress by their standards, nor can they judge themselves by yours. To dedicatedly fight your way back from so low a point, it has taken more work than you are comfortable with admitting. But you deserve to acknowledge it._

By the time he gets back to the sofa, Shiro finds Slav exactly where he left him, save that Slav has finished his cake, put the empty plate on the coffee-table, and brought out a stack of papers and notes that he seems absorbed in. He nods vaguely when Shiro tells him to clean up his dishes, but leaves them there, instead. Annoying as it is to clean up after another grown man, Shiro runs the plate to the sink and washes it off. Cleaning up the cake-remnants will be more difficult, the longer that the plate is left to sit out. Ryou’s day is going to be hard enough without being expected to serve as his best friend’s maid because Slav thought he was making some kind of point to Ryou’s brother and Shiro decided to be immature about refusing to let Slav, “win” at something that isn’t actually a contest.

Although it isn’t quite what Shiro had in mind by, _“respect,”_ Slav says nothing for long enough that Shiro decides to cast his sketchbook aside for his journal. Slav doesn’t even argue about having _Parks and Rec_ on for background noise, letting Shiro get well into this entry. Not that he can’t draw right now; he _could_. His thoughts and feelings could also feel infinitely messier. Jotting them down helps, though, and the ease with which he’s managing right now almost lets Shiro think that Slav’s done talking for the day. Shiro’s trying to rein in a tangent about Keith when Slav clears his throat so loudly that Shiro startles and drops his pen.

Shaking his head, Shiro tries to slip back into writing. Slav clears his throat again and keeps it up until he has eye-contact back.

“I _apologize_?” he says, holding up a hand in a way that seems to mean Slav isn’t done speaking yet. “I don’t…? I have not been talking about therapy in such a negative way to hurt you. But I _do_ find it a waste of time, based on empirical evidence and on my direct experiences with such things, which in this reality, have not been _constructive_ —”

“And I _get_ that?” Shiro chimes in, as gently as he can manage. “It’s the dismissive attitude that I don’t appreciate—”

“But I _am_ dismissive of therapy. Really, of the entire mental health institution.” Slav shrugs, less _“come at me”_ and more demanding to know what Shiro wants him to say. “Even the best research in the field, at present, is either poorly understood guesswork or case studies that provide intriguing insights but cannot be effectively generalized—”

“You _know_ that Timothy Leary and Oliver Sacks were _psychologists_ , right?” …Probably not the most helpful interjection, so Shiro sighs and tacks on, “I mean, yeah, okay. Neither of them was exactly _conventional_? And Timothy Leary was also a criminal—”

“Oh, please. His arrests had to do with political pressure from Ronald Reagan and possession of marijuana—”

“He took advantage of his students before he got kicked out of Harvard.” Shiro tucks his fringe behind his ear so Slav can see his whole face for this. “He didn’t do enough to take care of the people he often manipulated into letting him dose them with LSD or psilocybin. In fact, he actively _exacerbated_ people’s bad trips in some cases, just to see what happened. Maybe a lot of the panic about him was conservative backlash, but it’s not like he was an angel or a martyr.”

“People didn’t _understand_ him,” Slav whines. “Because he wanted to expand the boundaries of human consciousness—”

“We’re getting off-topic.” Shiro doesn’t mean to snap and dimly, he hopes that he didn’t come off like that. At least, not too much. “Which is my fault, for even dragging Leary and Sacks into the discussion in the first place. I’m sorry for that, I just?” With a sigh, Shiro slouches harder into the armrest. “I seriously _do not understand_ how you can love and respect those guys, while still hating an institution that they were a part of. Sacks, until his death, and Leary, until he decided that exploiting people for his own purposes and pointlessly annoying Ronald Reagan sounded so much more fun.”

Not that Shiro would _respect_ Ronald Reagan. But he’d bother the man with a _point and a purpose_ , not for his own gratification.

“Your whole point rests on a ridiculous and bourgeoisie conflation, Takashi,” Slav informs him, sounding like he needs an all-black ensemble, a hand-rolled cigarette, a beret, and a hazy, pretentious café to kick back in while he babbles at a bunch of self-important hipsters about things that none of them even remotely understands.

Resting his cheek in his palm, Shiro points out, “The word you’re looking for is, _‘bourgeois.’ ‘Bourgeoisie’_ is the noun.”

Slav rolls his eyes and presses on: “I have the utmost respect for neuropsychologists and the _real_ scientists who are doing _real work_ to understand the human mind. What I do _not_ respect is a corrupt, phony institution that only didn’t directly grow out of Project MKUltra? Because a bunch of pompous, fraudulent, good-for-nothing _phonies_ like Sigmund Freud and Carl Jung were lying to people and laying the groundwork of the psychiatric and therapeutic institutions before the CIA even _dreamed_ of their little mind-control initiative.”

“Sure thing, Holden Caulfield,” Shiro deadpans. “Because helping people manage panic attacks is an instrument of social control.”

“ _Isn’t it, though_?” Slav bleats, flailing his skinny arms at Shiro. “You go to a therapist because you behave in this way or you have those experiences, and somebody says that it’s obstructive, or _de_ structive, or _distracting_ , or otherwise terribly inconvenient for them—”

“The somebody in question could be _yourself_ —”

“But these behaviors and experiences are determined to be bad because why? Because someone with a degree _says so_ —”

“Plenty of the people who _have_ said experiences agree, though. There really isn’t an upside to panic attacks—”

“You know, for someone who prefers studying the soft sciences—”

“ _Social_ sciences—”

“—to dabbling in the hard sciences?” Slav shoves his glasses back up his nose with a huff that’s probably meant to make him sound authoritative. “You are remarkably close-minded, Takashi, when it comes to considering the degree to which our understandings of quote-unquote, ‘mental illness’ is socially constructed. Or are we pretending that there are no cultural differences in the experiences of the underlying neuro-chemical hijinks? No political agendas at play in determining what does or doesn’t count as a symptom of something? The APA listed homosexuality as a mental disorder until 1970, electroconvulsive torture was a preferred method of trying to _cure_ gay people of their sexualities, and there are alleged professionals who stand by their practice of reparative therapy even now. Was any of that _right_?”

“God, Slav. Manipulating a gay man with that history _totally_ makes it sound like you have a _real_ case.”

“But _don’t_ I?” Another _“come at me”_ shrug, and the worst part is that Slav genuinely believes everything he’s saying. “In Bytor, the behaviors you associate with your so-called eating disorder? Are often regarded not as an illness but as a quirk, potentially as a sign of indomitable, possibly divinely-given strength. Or St. Catherine of Siena? She understood her acts of self-starvation as a means of purifying her soul through asceticism and communing with the Christian God.”

“Okay, for one thing? No, she didn’t.” If Shiro knew where Ryou’s hidden his old copy of _Holy Feast, Holy Fast_ , he would throw it at Slav’s head. Maybe that would make him absorb the information better than he apparently gets out of conversations with other people. “St. Catherine of Siena saw her messed up relationship with food as an _infirmity_. She didn’t want _praise_ for it. She felt like she was so sick that she literally couldn’t eat, and the strength, for her? Was that, despite her illness and how much it wrecked her body? She kept ministering to sick and dying needy people during the Black Death.”

But the more immediately important thing is what Shiro tacks on after allowing himself a heated sigh: “I’m not saying that there _aren’t_ any cultural or contextual differences in how people experience mental health issues. But who are we _helping_ by acting like someone’s experiences being one way invalidate anyone else’s? Maybe I felt strong when I first started developing my disorder, but at the worst of it? All I felt was _weak_ , Slav. Weak, and sick, and _terrified_. There were other reasons why I relied on it for so long, but that doesn’t change the fact that I _hated_ feeling like that.”

“But by that token?” Slav needles. “If we accept that, then why is _my_ objection to therapy invalid?”

“Why are my requests for you to respect that I get something positive out of therapy invalid?” Shiro throws out his own, _“come at me”_ shrug, and part of him wishes that Slav would. “There is a _difference_ between admitting that therapy and psychiatry can be misused, including in ways that are actively harmful to people? And telling people who are suffering that it’s _wrong_ for them to want access to different treatment options. Unless you think I was better off _before_ I accepted help? Which, for the record, I don’t. I’d rather be healthier.”

“Nothing good comes without a price,” Slav says, downright eerie in his matter-of-fact tone. “The greater the potential good, the more it will cost. No one has the potential to accomplish anything of true significance without the risk of an equally great failure. Genius like yours or mine can’t exist without some manner of downside.”

Shiro slumps his head back onto the cushion. “ _‘I’m a genius, so I deserve my issues, guess I’ll just suffer’?_ Like it’s that easy?”

“Of course it isn’t _easy_ , Takashi. We’re talking about _true greatness_ here.” The roll of Slav’s eyes is audible in his aggrieved sigh. “Nothing truly great is _ever_ accomplished without sacrifice and pain. Trying to augment the natural way that your mind works? Calling it an illness? That, to me, is little more than a way for smaller-minded, _conventional_ people to condescend to and stifle us. It’s their way to appeal to authority and make us fit into overly restrictive boxes that _they_ decide on _for_ us. They do it for _their_ comfort, not for ours. They want to strip us of downsides that _must_ exist in order for our genius to _function and flourish_.”

Talking to a brick wall would be a perfectly relaxing garden party, compared to this.

Covering his face with both hands, Shiro groans. He rubs at the bridge of his nose. He draws in a deep breath and holds it for a count of ten. For good measure, he does that a few more times before he even thinks about the words for what he’s thinking, never mind saying anything aloud.

“I’m sorry for whatever you’ve been through to make you feel that way,” Shiro eventually tells him. “But I’m not hoping to achieve _greatness_ , Slav. I don’t _need_ greatness in my life and I don’t want to break myself in pieces, trying to get it. I used to think a lot like you do about therapy when I was younger. But now?”

Shiro looks him in the eye again, saying, “All I want is to make my music, keep _not_ hurting myself, stay sober, and maintain the relationships that matter to me. The best thing I could get in my life, in _this_ reality? Would be waking up next to someone I love and being able to mean it when I tell him, _‘If this isn’t nice, I don’t know what is.’_ ”

Slav’s befuddled frown scrunches up his entire face. “But… you’re a _genius_ ,” he protests. “Why wouldn’t you want to do _great things_ with that?”

“Because chasing greatness made me _miserable_.” Huffing, Shiro picks his journal up again, so he can get some of this written down before he has a chance to forget it. “It’s enough for me to be as good a person as I can, and to maybe get those moments of being _happy_.”

*** * ***

_[12:02 PM]: How’s the babysitting going?_

_[12:04 PM]: Oh my god, I hate him_  
_[12:04 PM]: He’s just lurking in his room right now and I hate him_

_[12:06 PM]: Are you okay?_  
_[12:06 PM]: What did he do? Do I need to hurt him?_

_[12:06 PM]: You don’t need to and shouldn’t_  
_[12:07 PM]: But I’d be lying if I said I wouldn’t love watching you verbally eviscerate him_  
_[12:07 PM]: But that being said_  
_[12:08 PM]: Eh, relative to a day with Slav, I’m doing okay?_  
_[12:08 PM]: But that’s more like “getting by, not terrible, could be better”_

_[12:09 PM]: I’m sorry_  
_[12:09 PM]: I’m going to ask what I can do, but first I have to ask_  
_[12:09 PM]: Who the fuck even names their kid “Slav”?_

_[12:10 PM]: His full given name is Miroslav_  
_[12:10 PM]: His Dad is Bytor and his Mom is Polish_  
_[12:10 PM]: It’s kinda like me and “Shiro” vs. “Takashi” vs. “Kashi”_  
_[12:11 PM]: Except Slav doesn’t let anybody call him, “Miroslav”_  
_[12:12 PM]: Ryou and Sven have had to talk him down when someone called him that who didn’t know better_

_[12:12 PM]: Huh. Do you know why he’s like that?_

_[12:13 PM]: afaik, it has something to do with his parents_  
_[12:14 PM]: Which is when I decided not to push Ryou anymore_  
_[12:14 PM]: It’s Slav’s thing to disclose or not, right?_

_[12:16 PM]: I don’t know what to say to that so here: ❤️_

_[12:16 PM]: You could tell me how you’re doing maybe? If you want? ❤️_

_[12:17 PM]: Working on some longhand drafts of my answers for Kolivan’s TA application_  
_[12:18 PM]: Still haven’t talked to him but I want to work on it_  
_[12:18 PM]: Thought I’d go to the library on campus but I’m still at my place_  
_[12:19 PM]: Trying to figure out lunch_  
_[12:20 PM]: Wondering what I can do to help you? Since you didn’t say?_

_[12:21 PM]: Oh right, lunch_

_[12:21 PM]: Did you forget about that?_

_[12:21 PM]: I was writing when your first text came through_  
_[12:21 PM]: I got caught up in it_  
_[12:22 PM]: Which, thank you for interrupting ❤️_

_[12:22 PM]: Good timing, me_

_[12:23 PM]: Amazing timing, actually ❤️_  
_[12:26 PM]: But ugh, there’s like nothing here that I can make and actually want to eat_

_[12:27 PM]: Are you kidding? Not even oatmeal or anything?_

_[12:28 PM]: I kinda have a hangup about oatmeal now_

_[12:28 PM]: Wait, really?_  
_[12:29 PM]: I thought it was okay?_

_[12:29 PM]: Yeah, it was_  
_[12:30 PM]: I don’t want to avoid telling you? But I’d rather explain in person? ❤️_

_[12:31 PM]: You could just ask me to come over…_  
_[12:31 PM]: I’m saying, it’d be way easier……_

_[12:31 PM]: I wasn’t trying to push for that ❤️_  
_[12:32 PM]: Unless you want to come over, in which case, Ryou said it’s okay ❤️_  
_[12:34 PM]: I was just saying, the hangup is weird and complicated and it’s easier for me to talk about face-to-face?_  
_[12:35 PM]: I don’t know if I feel up to it today specifically but_

_[12:35 PM]: It’s okay, I understand_

_[12:36 PM]: When I do share, I’d rather do it face-to-face ❤️_

_[12:36 PM]: But what about takeout or something? Or can you not leave your charge alone for that?_

_[12:37 PM]: If more places delivered around here, we’d be fine_  
_[12:38 PM]: But yeah, leaving Slav alone to go get the takeout could go badly_

_[12:39 PM]: What about calling KDS?_  
_[12:39 PM]: Keith’s Delivery Service_  
_[12:39 PM]: I need to get out of this apartment anyway_  
_[12:40 PM]: Just tell me where to go, I’ll get something for everybody_  
_[12:40 PM]: You have a meeting tonight, right?_

_[12:41 PM]: Yeah, NA Fridays, 7PM at the LGBTQ community center_

_[12:41 PM]: There’s an LGBTQ community center?_

_[12:41 PM]: Yeah, over on Spring Street_  
_[12:42 PM]: It’s like halfway between Ryou’s building and Rover’s park, it’s great_

_[12:42 PM]: Maybe I do need to get out more_  
_[12:43 PM]: Anyway, order enough so you can have dinner too_

_[12:43 PM]: I can’t ask you to pay for that yourself, Keith ❤️_  
_[12:43 PM]: But_  
_[12:44 PM]: Have you had traditional Galran food before?_  
_[12:45 PM]: There’s a place a few blocks from Ryou’s building, his ex-gf’s Galra family owns it_  
_[12:46 PM]: He has a tab there, or I can give them a card over the phone_  
_[12:46 PM]: And their menu’s online_

_[12:47 PM]: Yeah but I don’t have unlimited data_  
_[12:48 PM]: And the shawarma place down the block from me changed the password on their Wifi_  
_[12:48 PM]: And I already had to use data to email Ryner back because I guess she wants to meet on Monday_  
_[12:49 PM]: But it’s whatever, I’ve had Galran before but I don’t remember what I had_  
_[12:50 PM]: But you know what I like well enough, so I trust your judgment ❤️_  
_[12:53 PM]: So, where am I going exactly?_

_[12:54 PM]: It’s called Serpentine Violet, I’ll put the order under your name ❤️_  
_[12:55 PM]: Sending the addresses now, can’t wait to see you ❤️_

*** * ***

By the time Keith shows up, Slav’s taken his lunch and retreated into his own room, thankfully. This morning’s conversation doesn’t leave Shiro feeling like anything has been resolved between them, and the last thing he wants right now is to try explaining Slav and Keith to each other.

When Shiro lets him in, Keith’s wrapped up in a red hoodie and well-worn black jeans, with one huge bag of takeout in each hand. The talk stays pretty small while Shiro separates out their different pieces of the order. The current episode is paused down on the laptop, so Shiro can better appreciate the lilt that Keith lets slip into his voice during their back-and-forth and the way his whole face seems to laugh as he insists that picking up lunch was no trouble, really. After all, he needed to get out of the apartment today anyway.

“Keith,” Shiro says with a fond chuckle, brushing some hair back off his face. “You’re like an angel with no wings.”

Keith furrows his brow. “…Okay, I know you’re probably referencing something?” he says. “Because I know I’ve heard Shay say that before? But I have no idea what that something is and I don’t, like? Wouldn’t an angel with no wings be like Clarence from _It’s A Wonderful Life_? Which, if I’m _him_ for you, then wouldn’t that mean, like…”

That idea trails off into a whimpering, pleading sort of noise and Keith squeezes Shiro’s hand for dear life. He doesn’t relax when Shiro squeezes back, doesn’t sigh in relief until Shiro promises that he didn’t mean to reference that Christmas movie and _definitely_ didn’t intend to imply any suicidal ideation.

Hearing that, _“You’re like an angel with no wings”_ came from a sitcom makes Keith groan — _“God, I probably should’ve **known** ,”_ he says, _“like that is such a **sitcom** way of phrasing things”_ — but he also doesn’t argue when Shiro turns the gay penguins episode back on. While Shiro tries introducing Keith to the show, the only thing Keith complains about at all is Shiro going too long between bites of his lunch, which is more than fair. Keith also wasn’t there to witness Shiro’s absolute lowest point, but he’s seen Shiro get low enough before. Paying enough attention to get concerned about Shiro’s eating habits only means that Keith cares — and Shiro is so, so unfathomably lucky to have this in his life. He’s with the guy he loves, who loves him back and cares.

For all it’s a perfectly fine time, eating lunch together and introducing Keith to _Parks and Rec_ , Shiro is more than up for it when Keith decides that he’d rather kiss Shiro on the mouth instead. Once he has permission, Keith nudges Shiro around so his back’s against the armrest and climbs up into Shiro’s lap. He tries lazily draping his arms around Shiro’s shoulders and kissing him slowly and deeply, but so borderline-chastely, it’s like he’s dragging everything out with a mind to tease Shiro. When Shiro slides a hand up Keith’s thigh, though, Keith gasps into his mouth. Both of his hands clasp onto Shiro’s face and Keith throws himself in headlong, all the more desperately, like he’s afraid of losing Shiro all over again. As if this kiss feels like the only thing that could keep Shiro from disappearing.

Curling his arm around Keith’s waist like he’s cradling someone precious (because he is, even if Keith doesn’t realize it), Shiro tugs him in closer. Keith gasps softly as his warm, soft stomach presses up against Shiro’s abs, and frankly, it takes effort for Shiro not to gasp as well. As Keith’s catching his breath, Shiro rubs their foreheads together. He knows what he wants to say, and he’s going to. Keith turns those dark, intense eyes on him, looking up at Shiro through his thick lashes. That look gets a gasp out of Shiro, but he isn’t going to stay wrapped up in Keith’s eyes all afternoon. No matter how much he wants to, he has something to get out. Even if he said it on Monday night, he needs to say it again, he needs to tell Keith how much he loves him, as many times as it takes, until Keith believes it without any question—

But when Shiro opens his mouth to say so, Keith pulls him into another kiss, sucking on Shiro’s tongue like he wants to lose himself in Shiro’s mouth, or like the boundaries between their bodies are too much for him to take and Keith would merge their souls together if he had half a chance. Keith kisses like he needs this kiss to stay alive. When they finally need to breathe, Keith’s the one to butt his forehead against Shiro’s. He squeezes his thighs against Shiro’s hips. Shiro may need to catch his breath but he’s going to say it, this time. Aloud and clearly, so Keith can hear those words and know with every fiber of his being that Shiro means them.

Except Keith drops his hands from Shiro’s jaw and knocks their noses into each other as he leans in again. He’s nuzzling at Shiro’s cheek when he says, barely above a whisper but nevertheless unmistakably, “Shiro? I love you… I love you _so much_ …”

“I love you, too,” Shiro whispers as Keith runs his fingers through Shiro’s fringe. With a snicker, he adds, “Beat me to saying it.”

Keith smirks and forehead-nudges. “Don’t be so slow next time and maybe I won’t.”

“Duly noted.” Smiling, Shiro palms at Keith’s ass.

Keith sighs contentedly. “Just wanted to make sure you knew,” he says before stealing a gentler, briefer kiss, as if he’s suddenly shy. Or maybe like he’s realizing how firm his kisses have been so far and he doesn’t want to leave any bruises on Shiro’s lips. “You’ve said it more than me… I felt like… Liiiike…”

The way Keith trails off, Shiro half-expects for him to sneeze.

Instead, he yawns so deeply, it almost coaxes one out of Shiro, too. For all he meant to keep copping a feel of Keith’s ass, Shiro brings that hand up to his face, gingerly brushing Keith’s hair aside and taking in his face. Maybe Keith isn’t exactly _wan_ or _pallid_ , but he’s a shade or two paler than usual. There’s an impish glimmer to his eyes as he twists his head around and kisses Shiro’s wrist, but then he yawns again and tries to hide it by leaning in closer (but doing little else). Nudging Shiro’s forehead this time feels less intentional and more like Keith topples into it. When he sits up again, Shiro rests the back of his fingers on Keith’s forehead — he isn’t feverish, but even so—

“Hey,” Shiro says gently, tucking some of Keith’s hair behind his ear. “Are you feeling okay?”

Keith nods. But after he fails to choke down another yawn, he acquiesces, “I dunno, I’m kinda tired? But mostly okay?”

“Did you sleep last night?” As Keith nods again, Shiro keeps his hair from falling too far into his face. “Did you sleep _well_? And _enough_?”

“Kept waking up,” Keith admits with a sigh. “I don’t even… There was nothing _wrong_? And it wasn’t you guys, I didn’t _actually_ …” A yawn, and he falls into Shiro’s forehead again. “I dunno, I tried to get to sleep before you guys were done, I was tired enough? But then even after y’all finally went home…?”

“Was it like you were just lying there?” Shiro offers and his insides feel frosted over, remembering how much insomnia has sucked for him before. “Like, you’re exhausted, you want to sleep, but there’s something that won’t let your brain turn off?”

“It just feels like _static_ …”

A hint of whining creeps into Keith’s voice and it feels like something has six-inch claws digging into Shiro’s heart. Keith slouches without really letting himself relax against Shiro — it’s that self-reliance coming out again, even to the risk Keith’s own detriment. Maybe this isn’t as extreme as he _could_ get about that, but he’s still insistently sitting up on his own when letting himself lean on Shiro might be better for him.

“I don’t _think_ I was having nightmares or anything?” he says, nosing at Shiro’s cheek like he wants something but isn’t quite sure what.

“I’m gonna shift us around, okay?” Shiro says and gives Keith a peck underneath his eye. “We’re gonna lie down, and you can take a nap.”

It takes Keith a moment — one that he spends, trying to make wordless, whining protests, likely about how he is not that tired, and this really isn’t necessary, and what if he’d rather make out than sleep — but finally, on the heels of another yawn, he nods.

At least Ryou’s sofa has huge cushions and a deep back. It was a comfortable sleeping place back when Shiro still lived here, every bit as much as his bed, and now, it easily accommodates him and Keith both. Perhaps a bit more awkwardly than a one-person nap, but at least there’s enough space and Keith doesn’t argue about snuggling up into this arrangement. Shiro ends up half-propped on the armrest and Keith curls up against him, partly against his side and partly draped across his chest. While Keith nestles into Shiro’s chest and tries to get comfortable, Shiro rubs at Keith’s arm and whispers that it’s okay, Keith’s safe and there will be more time for kissing when he isn’t two steps off from passing out.

Shiro loses track of time like this, cuddling Keith close and watching over him as if being here while he’s napping can actually keep Keith protected from whatever’s going on in his own mind. But after a while, Keith’s overly controlled deep breathing gives way to soft, breathy snoring. As he looks down at the beautiful guy sleeping in his arms, Shiro feels his heart flopping every which way in a fight to keep itself beating. God, with the way Keith looks so innocent and so _unguarded_ , and the way his hair falls over his face — sleepy Keith is the cutest thing that Shiro’s seen in weeks. 

Shiro doesn’t realize that he’s said this out loud until Slav flicks him on the back of the head and as if he’s actually being helpful, chirps at Shiro, “Now, imagine living in one of the realities where this is the cutest thing that you get to see _every single morning_!”

“I _have_ , Slav,” Shiro grumbles, even though he knows he shouldn’t. “Obsessing about what life is like for the Shiros who live in _those_ realities? Is one of the reasons why Ulaz told me _not to dwell too much_ on thinking about them.”

Slav frowns in polite befuddlement. “Why would he suggest a thing like that?” he says, tilting his head as if he’s trying to read a map he’s holding upside down. “I would think it’d make you happy, imagining realities where you already get to wake up next to a boyfriend who loves you, every morning…”

“Yeah, it does…” _Not least since, in those realities, Keith actually **is** my boyfriend, and probably doesn’t doubt how much I want to be his, too._ “It fills me with unspeakable joy to imagine that… Until I get depressed and overwhelmed about how I don’t currently live in one of those realities. Then, all I can do is mope in the dark and listen to Fiona Apple.”

“…Oh,” says Slav. “…Hmmm. Yes, I suppose I see where that could become a problem for you.”

Right now, Shiro doesn’t even have the will to roll his eyes. “Yeah. So, Ulaz’s idea for me is to focus less on the alternate realities out there, and more on how I can make _this_ reality into one where Keith’s sleeping face is, in fact, the cutest thing that I get to see every morning.”

For a moment, Slav’s whole face lights up with an _Aha!_ moment. He opens his mouth like he has to share whatever he’s just realized or he literally might explode. Not that Shiro particularly _wants_ for that to happen. Annoying as Slav is and despite their disagreements, Slav _isn’t_ a terrible person, and if he exploded, Ryou would get upset. Also, Shiro would have to try and clean it up before the viscera formerly known as Slav too badly stained the walls and the hardwood floor.

But when Slav dashes back to his room instead of babbling, Shiro is so not gonna bother arguing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought that I’d have more to say about this chapter, now that it’s done? But all I’ve got is this:
> 
> 1\. Slav is surprisingly difficult to write;
> 
> 2\. In the end, my Slav wound up feeling (to me) like a mix of canon!Slav, Rick Sanchez from _Rick and Morty_ (in particular, his rants about therapists being agents of mediocrity feel a lot like Rick’s anti-therapy tirade in, “Pickle Rick”), some of the people I went to undergrad with, and my irl conspiracy theorist father;
> 
> and 3. Happy Halloween, folks. Hope to see you all next time, too. Keith’s POV will be back next time, as his essay for Ryner has effects in his life other than making him and Shiro talk about feelings and stuff. ♡


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, remember that Keith guy? Well, his POV is back and he’s probably back to frustrating you by a great deal, just… not about his relationship with Shiro. Or at least Keith’s being more frustrating about other things than he is about his relationship with Shiro. However, considering that Keith _is_ still being incredibly frustrating, I’m sorry for him, but I promise that he is trying. Effort is being put in, for better, for worse, and occasionally for neither but it might still make you face-desk and yell at him. ♡

Come Monday, Keith rouses not for his alarm, but for his brain and/or his body once again refusing to let him sleep. Even napping on Shiro’s chest or staying over in his bed hasn’t given Keith the rest that it, by all rights, should’ve done.

Glaring at the clock, then his phone, he sees the same damn answer about what unholy time it is, and yeah, okay. 6:27 AM sure explains why Keith feels like someone’s turned his veins into lead and his arms into bricks, then stuffed up his entire brain with cotton candy. He tosses and turns for another eight minutes before giving up. But it could be worse, Keith guesses. He has enough energy to drag himself out of bed, and anyway, he’d probably give people more cause for worry if he didn’t come to class. Slamming back a Mountain Dew and shoving himself into a cold shower at least shakes off some of the feeling like his brain’s been replaced by static.

Rolo and Nyma shake off the rest, or anyway, they get most of it. He catches Keith while he’s locking up his place and asks what the Hell Keith’s thinking, going out with wet hair when it’s cold and there’s talk of the weather getting colder and come on, man, does Keith _want_ to get sick. Nyma not only agrees, she also insists that Keith come and use her hair dryer. Then, she insists on drying his hair for him. Apparently, he looks, _“Too confused, it’s almost painful to watch.”_

Really, it’s less that he’s confused — nothing about the hair dryer seems that complicated — and more that the combination of heat and noise shoves Keith’s face straight into a raging river of sensory Hell. Oddly enough, though, it’s more tolerable when Nyma takes over. Either way, Beezer feels a need to whine and Rolo finds something about the situation amusing. Still, Nyma manages to get Keith’s hair dry without totally putting his nerves through a wood-chipper.

Keith barely makes it to the bus, but at least he’s less likely to catch anything gross and throw off his plans for the rest of the semester. Not that Keith had too many of those as such, and almost none of them were what he’d call, _“concrete.”_ But he had enough notions about how his final year as an undergraduate was going to go, back in September. He had enough ideas that have gotten readjusted since Shiro dropped back into his life. For all Keith prefers having Shiro here, he can only handle so much jerking around his own expectations. Unsettling everything because he knocked himself on his ass with strep again? Or pneumonia? He’d rather not.

The whole ride up to campus, Keith’s hair feels abnormally fluffy — but hey, it’s better than missing the bus or worse. Checking his hair in his phone’s selfie-vision, Keith can’t really see a difference. Mostly, he feels like it’s all getting long enough to merit finding someone to give him a cut or loan him an elastic. If not that, then Keith could definitely enjoy having Shiro’s fingers in his hair. Tangled up in it, or combing through it, or brushing it back off of Keith’s face in that gentle way he does, or tugging it while they’re making out, maybe while Keith sucks his dick… But Keith yanks his own locks until that thought kindly sees itself out. As nice an idea as it is, Keith won’t make it through class if he lets himself get lost in thinking about how he and Shiro could be having sex right now instead.

Waiting for his coffee at Java Hut, he texts Allura that he’ll meet her at class, not for breakfast. He tells her that he’s sorry, but he had to get up to campus early and he’s grabbing something on his own right now. Only when she asks what’s going on does Keith consider what his cover story should be. Which is probably a bonehead move, on his part. He’s up here over an hour before class is supposed to start. Of course Allura’s going to assume that something’s going on, and then she’ll want to know what it is. Shay already wasn’t supposed to be meeting them — she and her brother had to go home for their Grandma’s birthday, and she won’t be back for class at all until tomorrow — and throwing off their routine too much can upset Allura every bit as much as Keith gets shaken when reality dashes his notions about How Things Will Go.

Ultimately, he doesn’t bother with a lie, admitting, _“Woke up early. Felt restless. Didn’t want to risk sleeping through my alarm and accidentally skipping again, so I just came here.”_

She sends him back, _“Please take care, unelinde. I’ll see you in class”_

Maybe it’s not a lot to most people, but it’s enough to make Keith get back on-line for a scone, even though he isn’t hungry. At the moment, he doesn’t see himself caring too much if not eating catches up to him and he starts brain-lagging later. Allura doesn’t break out the Altean terms of endearment for everyone, though. Even with Keith and Shay, she usually doesn’t use them often. Keith’s gotten, _“unelinde”_ from his Princess before — but the first time she used it with him, back when they were still together, Allura had spent three weeks feeling dangerously close to a breakdown and it slipped out while Keith was trying to get her to come sleep. The second time she used it with him was when he agreed to come to the townhouse, after she and her Father caught him sleeping in the backseat of Alfor’s Benz.

The third time was an accident, a few weeks after they’d broken it off romantically. Although both of them were exhausted, Allura finally explained what the word meant. According to her, the closest translation into English was a mix of, _“soulmate”_ and, _“beloved,”_ but without as many of the overtly romantic overtones as people had ever attached to those terms in Allura’s experience. _“Unelinde”_ carries fewer connotations of destiny or fate, more of recognizing a kindred spirit — _“Someone who earns such a distinction is said to have a soul made from the same kind of cosmic dust as your own”_ — and choosing to make them a part of your life, no matter the exact nature of your relationship.

All of which sounded pretty romantic to Keith, at the time. But Allura swore it wasn’t inherently that way, and the most important point remains: if you ignore the accidents, then she only breaks out that endearment for him when either she isn’t doing so well herself, or when she’s worried about him. Or sometimes both.

Either way, Keith finds the classroom mercifully unlocked. The downside is that today just had to be one of the days when the tables need to get rearranged. Sure, Keith understands that different classes have different preferences or needs, and it might be easier to clean the room when the tables are arranged in rows rather than the almost-circle that Kolivan prefers. But he still allows himself a sigh and a roll of the eyes as he drops his backpack, sets down his breakfast, and peels out of his hoodie. Doing this by himself is gonna suck, but still marginally less than it’d suck to get absorbed in something while Keith waits for someone else and then get interrupted by the need to move the tables.

After two tables get pulled into place, someone bangs on the door. Keith snaps to attention, then sighs in something that’s almost but not quite relief. Leaning against the door-frame is Pidge, with her perpetual bedhead, a thermos that Keith presumes is full of coffee, and her oversized, bright green sweatshirt.

“Hey, stranger,” she chirps, smiling like she’s actually glad to see him. “Happy Monday.”

“That sounds like an oxymoron if I’ve ever heard one.”

“Aww, does somebody have a case of the Mondays?”

“Somebody has a case of, ‘Fuck me, I need to quit being a little bitch and go back to the gym already, moving the tables should _not_ be so fucking _tiring_.’” Which only earns Keith a quirk of Pidge’s eyebrow, which in turn makes him sigh and slouch. “And maybe somebody has a case of, ‘I haven’t been sleeping well for reasons that have nothing to do with your band.’ But these things won’t go away tomorrow, so… No, I don’t have a case of the so-called Mondays. I have a case of something else entirely.”

Pidge rolls her eyes, but it’s mostly affectionate. Keith thinks. Maybe he’s wrong, but it kinda seems like he probably isn’t. Setting her backpack and thermos down at the same table in the back where Keith put his things, she says, “You kinda suck at asking for help, don’t you?”

“Can only spend so much time asking for help with shit and getting nothing but Hell for it,” Keith points out, furrowing his brow as Pidge takes off her own sweatshirt. “Sooner or later, you learn to stop bothering and handle things on your own.”

“Yeah, okay.” Pidge rolls out her shoulders and stretches. “And sometimes it’s better to be alone because no one can hurt you, right, Meg?”

“Well, yeah, obviously? If you aren’t around other people, they don’t even have a _chance_ to hurt you. They can’t _leave_ you if you aren’t in their lives to begin with, and they can’t…” Keith stops abruptly and blinks down at Pidge’s impish smirk.

It takes a moment before he groans in recognition and wishes he were standing by the wall so he could smack his head against it, like the idiot he apparently is. “Oh, my _God_ … That was from _Hercules_ , wasn’t it? You just fucking Disneyed me and I didn’t even _get it_ … And that’s like one of Megara’s biggest, most important lines in the entire movie, too…”

“Yeah, but no judgment here. You’re still a big, tough girl who ties her own sandals and everything, right?” Pidge pouts when Keith doesn’t laugh. “Your Wonder Boy loves that movie. He said it wasn’t your favorite but you liked it, too. I just picked it as a shared point of reference. Y’know, as people do in conversations with other people.”

Keith shrugs. “Whatever. …Nice shirt.”

Her t-shirt is a darker, cooler shade of green than her sweatshirt, with a screenprint of some oddly-shaped cartoon character that reminds Keith of some books he remembers reading as a kid. They’re kind of round and a bright shade of purple, with pink pigtails, a bulbous green nose, a book in one hand, a smug expression, and Buddy Holly glasses. The black block letters below the character name them, _“Little Miss Know-It-All.”_

Pidge grins again, lining up opposite Keith. “Yours isn’t so bad either.”

“Shiro got it for me when we were living in Chicago,” Keith explains.

Aside from that backstory, Keith has no idea what’s so notably nice about what he’s wearing. It’s literally a black t-shirt with the cover of Johnny Cash’s _At Folsom Prison_ printed on the chest. It’s a bit snugger on Keith than it used to be, but not by a hugely noticeable amount. Whatever, though. Pidge is allowed to like it, if she wants. Maybe she just has good taste in music.

He means to ask what in the Hell she thinks she’s doing, standing over on the other side of the table. Trying to pick it up makes her intention obvious, though. Between the two of them, they have one person who’s short and skinny and not exactly strong, and one person who’s stronger than he looks but still needs to get back to the gym before he gets too comfortable with not going (not least because he can’t afford to waste money on new pants). Maybe they aren’t really the ideal team for moving tables, but it does go faster with them working together. When they’ve gotten everything set up how Kolivan likes for his classes, Keith thanks Pidge and moves his junk to one of his and Allura’s favorite spots. He gets his notebook and today’s readings out of his backpack, setting up to go over them or write or _something_.

This is the moment when he should end up on his own, as ever. Instead, Pidge perches on the table next to Keith’s. She toes out of her sneakers before folding her legs up criss-crossed. The sock a few inches from Keith’s elbow is bright red with a Spider-Man design on it; the other one is cream-colored with a pattern of dark green pot leaves. Either of them would merit the arched eyebrow that Keith throws her way, but she’s earning it more for the way that she’s sitting here, on the table, tilting her head and peering at him ever-so-curiously.

“I’m not going to do a trick if you keep watching me,” he deadpans. “You have to pay extra for that.”

“Half-serious question,” she says, undeterred. “Do you like anything? Like, _literally_ anything?”

Keith shrugs. “Uh, I like being out in nature?”

“What, with all of the poison oak, sunburn, and mosquitos?” Pidge wrinkles her nose like she’s caught a whiff of rotten garbage.

Nodding, Keith tells her, “It’s quieter out there. It feels less mentally cluttered. Gets you back to yourself.”

Maybe that’s why Keith’s been doing so badly, of late. It’s been ages since he’s had an occasion to venture out of town, never mind going far enough to lose the suburbs. God, he can’t even remember the last time when he _really_ got to feel like he’d broken free of all these people whom he mostly doesn’t care for, all their messy, tangled problems, and all their nonsensical systems that they expect Keith to understand without so much as a poorly drawn map with a, _“You Are Here”_ sticker. The closest he’s gotten to being out in nature is sitting in the grass on the quad, milling around in parks, or making out with Shiro against the old hawthorn tree. None of that is _bad_ , but it also isn’t nearly good enough.

Except dwelling on that isn’t answering Pidge’s question, and she’s arching an eyebrow at him like she wants something more.

“I like Shiro, obviously,” Keith offers. “I like Kolivan, like I told you before. I like Allura — she’s my best friend, used to be my girlfriend. My neighbors are okay, even though they always make our whole floor smell like weed. I like cats, I kinda feel like they _get_ me? I like Rufus, who is Kolivan and Antok’s dog. Not that I see a point in playing favorites with animals, but I _really_ like hippos?”

“ _Hippos_?” Pidge interjects. “ _Seriously_?”

Why do people always react like this when Keith mentions his favorite animals?

“I think they’re neat,” he says. “I want one for Christmas.”

That makes Pidge snort and trail off into giggles. But when she recovers, she tells him, “You should ask Wonder Boy. I mean, I don’t think you’d have enough space for a hippopotamus at your apartment. But he could probably swing one of those, ‘Sponsor this animal who lives in a zoo but you get to call it an adoption’ things for you. Or he could get you an expensive plush toy shaped like a hippo? And from somewhere really ritzy like La-Sai’s.”

Keith frowns. “Doesn’t someone called La-Sai _teach_ here?”

“Yeah, he’s in Creative Writing with Ryner.” Bouncing in anticipation of an info-dump, Pidge launches into explaining, “So, his family immigrated to New York from Olkarion in the late nineteenth century and set up this high-end toyshop, down in Greenwich Village. They never franchised, though, but I guess one of his cousins has helped get them online or something? Maybe they were never as iconic as FAO Schwarz, but their toys are amazing. They do custom orders, too, and everything they make is so high-quality.”

“Everything about them sounds _highly_ expensive. And like a trip into the City, besides.”

Sure. Shiro could, in theory, pay to have the hypothetical toy hippo delivered by mail and shell out for extra insurance and safety measures on the package. But in theory, Keith could borrow one of Allura’s family’s cars and one of her credit cards every weekend, then drive out of town and only stop when he needed to fill the tank or found somewhere he could feel like breathing’s less of a chore and he’s more himself again. Clearly, though, he hasn’t done this — and in the same way, Shiro would never simply buy Keith’s hypothetical toy hippo online. He would go into the City to fetch it and bring it back himself, because he would want to personally make sure it wasn’t damaged and that nothing bad happened to it in transit.

“Are you kidding?” says Pidge. “If you don’t think that Shiro would hop a train to Grand Central, trek down to the Village in a blizzard, and give La-Sai’s family whatever they asked, all to get you the best toy hippo that has ever been made in the entire history of toy hippos? Then you are seriously underestimating two big things.”

“The depth of his trust fund and his lack of chill about gift-giving?” Keith smirks.

“Okay, _four_ big things,” Pidge concedes. “I was going to say, ‘How much he likes making the people he loves happy’ and, ‘How much he loves you and wants _you specifically_ to be happy.’ But your answer isn’t wrong, either.”

“I know it isn’t.” Although he still isn’t hungry, Keith really probably should eat something, or else Allura’s going to worry when she gets here. Two bites of chocolate chip scone later, and he tells Pidge, “But anyway? I like coffee. I like Hunk. I like reading. I like driving but never really get the chance to do it. I like motorcycles, but I’ll probably never be able to afford one. And I don’t have a license for them. I like Dolly Parton and Nina Simone. I like the Man in Black, obviously.” He gestures at his t-shirt. “Your guys’ music isn’t my usual speed, but it’s pretty cool. I like making out, especially with Shiro.”

Which is probably enough sharing for Keith to justify asking her, “Was there any point to this question?”

All Pidge does is shrug. “Idle conversation, mostly. Trying to get to know you better.”

Fair enough, Keith supposes. But… “How’d you even know that I was here for you to do that?”

“I didn’t, technically?” In the face of Keith’s arched eyebrow, Pidge arches hers back. “Look, the room that _my_ morning class is in hasn’t gotten unlocked yet, so I went wandering. I thought that I recognized your hoodie and your hair, so I came to investigate.”

“Uh, not to be _rude_ , Pidge, but… Why?”

“Because I like you?” she says as though this is so simple that it shouldn’t need explaining.

“Are you…” Wrinkling his nose quickly gives way to Keith scrunching up his entire face. “Did Shiro put you up to this?”

Pidge’s face falls and her eyes go dull with how unimpressed she is. The way she taps her fingers on the table makes the hair on the back of Keith’s neck prick up. All up, her silence and that death-knell rapping of her fingertips leave Keith feeling like Pidge might be trying to convince herself not to smack him while he has his guard down and might be slower to defend himself. Vaguely, he thinks he might deserve it. Or he doesn’t think he’d begrudge her that cheap shot, if she wanted to take it.

“Y’know, I didn’t believe it when Hunk said you asked him the same thing during a random run-in?” she finally says. “Wow, you proved me wrong.”

“So…” Keith hazards. “That’s a, ‘No’?”

Frowning, Pidge thwaps the back of her hand against Keith’s temple, but it feels more gently disciplinary than like an action meant to hurt him. “Being Shiro’s friend doesn’t mean that I can’t be yours, too. Is it really so hard for you to believe that I might like you and want to be your friend?”

“Kinda, yeah? But, like…” Keith groans and buries himself in a long drink of his coffee. He doesn’t come up until he feels like he can use his words again. “Look, Pidge, it’s nothing to do with _you_ or anything _you’ve_ done, okay? I’m not used to people wanting to be friends with me. I’m used to being _alone_. It’s like I said before: most people I’ve ever met have hated dealing with me. Even the ones who don’t get that far tend to hate me.”

That should be more than enough opening up, but before he can stop himself, he sighs and adds, “They judge me before they even _know_ me.”

Pidge thinks about it, then bats at Keith’s shoulder. “Whatever, Shrek. Gimme your phone.”

“I wasn’t trying to quote anything…” Still, Keith hands over the device. “Are you putting your number in it?”

“Duh, _obviously_.” Tapping away at the screen, Pidge hums. “Here, I’ll give you Lance’s number, too. Your favorites list is severely underpopulated, and I mean? You already have Hunk in here. Why not just get the whole band while we’re at it?”

When she hands his phone back, it’s with a smile that’s so eager and hopeful, it almost makes Keith believe that good things really might be coming for him. From an objective standpoint, he doesn’t know if there’s a reason _not_ to trust Pidge about any of this. There might be, but like he said, they may not be actively related to Pidge herself or anything about their current situation. For now, he should probably have something to say. Pidge is being kind to him in so many ways that Keith hasn’t done anything to deserve, and for all he doesn’t exactly plan on using _Lance’s_ number, he can see himself using Pidge’s. Even Lance’s number could be helpful in a pinch, if Keith really finds himself in need of it. People can’t always get to their phones immediately, and spending time with Lance is probably better than spending time alone.

Before Keith can try to get his mouth around a statement, though, someone else knocks on the door-frame. They clear their throat when Keith’s too slow to look up, but that gets him to put on a smile. Allura looks like she might’ve tossed her outfit together in a few minutes. Sure, she’s as cute as ever in her long-sleeved _Breakfast at Tiffany’s_ t-shirt and one of her pink skirts with tulle underneath. Still, something about that choice and her messy morning-bun leaves Keith feeling like Allura might’ve been running out in a hurry. Whatever rush she was in, though, Allura found the time to stop at Java Hut herself: she’s toting two of their extra-large cups in a fold-up paper drink-carrier and she has a brown paper bag in one hand. Keith swallows thickly as he eyes the bag. God, he hopes Allura wasn’t rushing because of him.

She, in turn, arches an eyebrow at his scone. “You didn’t say if you were stopping to eat or not.”

“I’m not really hungry,” Keith says. “But I figured that I probably should?”

For all she nods, Allura doesn’t dwell on that. Instead, she tilts her head at Pidge. “Are we hosting a prospective student today?” she says. “I was under the impression that they usually had visitors go to lower-level classes?”

“Oh, she’s a student here already, Princess—”

“Hi, I’m Pidge.” Cutting in, she waves and smiles. “Well, I’m Katie Holt. But everybody calls me, ‘Pidge.’ It all started with my older brother Matt? It was his nickname for me back when we were growing up, and now it feels kinda like a part of me, y’know?”

“She plays keyboards for Galaxy Garrison,” Keith explains. “She’s one of Ryner’s advisees—”

“Comp-sci and creative writing double-major!”

“Yeah, there’s also that. Apparently, we’re getting to be friends, now? Pidge, this is—”

“Allura Orfaliegne,” she says brightly, setting her things down next to Keith. She reaches over his head as she extends a hand for Pidge. “Double-major in history and political science. And I am not actually a princess. Keith calls me that for fun.”

“It took me a while to learn her name, at first.”

“I can see where it’s coming from, though. You totally look like you could be a princess.” Pidge beams at the blush that blossoms on Allura’s cheeks. “But yeah, I know how that feels. I’m on the spectrum too, Princess. And with the Neurodiverse Student Union and the campus chapter of ASAN. Not that I’m trying to _recruit_ Keith or anything—”

“Except she kinda is.” Dragging his fingers back through his hair, Keith sighs. “Either of you have a spare elastic?”

Allura does, and while Keith ties his hair back into a ponytail, she says, “Whatever you decide to do, Darling? I will most likely support you in it. But, Pidge? As nice as it is to meet you, could I have a moment with Keith, please? Alone? Before our classmates arrive?”

Pidge blinks at her, then at Keith, but nods. “No problem. I should go try getting into my own classroom, so? Have all the moments you like,” she says. With a nudge at Keith’s shoulder, she adds, “Don’t forget to text me so I can get your number too, Mullet-Head. And Lance, but you can take your time on that one.”

Too many objections come to mind for Keith to voice any of them successfully. All he can do is watch as Pidge collects her stuff and bounces out into the hallway. Once she’s gone, he turns his face up to Allura. Maybe she isn’t trying to make his insides feel cold, but the smiling seems to have disappeared out of the classroom with Pidge. For a moment, Allura looks away from him. When she darts over to the door, Keith wonders if she’s going to leave.

But apparently, her only intent is to close it, firmly but politely. Allura wanting to get them some privacy doesn’t put Keith’s mind at ease.

For a long moment, Allura stands in front of him with her arms folded over her chest and her face perfectly, insistently neutral. In all likelihood, she expects him to know what’s going on and what he’s getting called to the carpet for, this time. Or maybe she isn’t sure how to start the conversation. He rubs at the bridge of his nose, trying to think about what he might’ve done lately to earn a closed-door conversation. Well, he’s probably racked up a lot of offenses in the past few weeks. More of them in the past few months, too. As much as Allura likes Shiro, she might not, after reading what Keith gave her. Maybe she likes him and Keith together enough to skip any, _“I told you so”_ s that Keith might be due for, but Keith still tried to get out of contacting him, and that’s gotta be worth a significant calling-out.

“Do I really have a mullet?” he says. “She and Lance, their bassist? They’ve both said that.”

“Technically, no. I would describe it as more of a shag, but…” Allura huffs. “Will you stand up?”

“…Am I in trouble?”

“No, Darling, you aren’t. But… please stand up?”

As soon as Keith’s on his feet, Allura scoops him up into a hug. It makes his heartbeat stutter, but Allura’s safe, so Keith relaxes soon enough. Even clinging to his shoulders as if she has no intention to let him go, Allura is safe and Keith knows that she means this fondly, protectively. No danger with her; she’d never _really_ try to hurt him. Any instincts that roused at the sudden contact, they calm down as Keith takes a deep whiff of her sugary-scented perfume. Nosing at her cheek, he catches the smell of her juniberry shampoo. Thanks to that, he settles enough to curl his arms around her middle and sigh into her shoulder.

“The essay?” he guesses, since it’s probably polite to ask instead of trusting his assumptions.

She nods, but says nothing.

“I don’t… Would telling you that I’m okay help at _all_?” He waits for Allura to shake her head. As she nuzzles at his shoulder, he tells her, “Well. I can’t begrudge you that, I think. And I dunno, I’d probably be lying, but? Are _you_ doing okay, Princess?”

“I’m _worried_ for you, _unelinde_ ,” she says. Asking what she’s talking about makes her squeeze him harder, then pull back enough to frown at him. “Do you feel _worthless_? As if your life truly has no meaning or intrinsic value? As if _you, yourself_ have no—”

“I don’t. _Know_. Princess. What do you want me to say?”

“I _want_ you to tell me when you need help, but…” Pouting and dewy-eyed, she pushes aside a piece of hair that Keith couldn’t wrangle back into the ponytail. “Keith, can you even _tell_ when you need help? When you _might_ need help?”

The way she’s watching him makes it clear to Keith: however he answers this question, it’s going to be important.

“Not really?” comes out before he feels like he’s done thinking. A deep breath, and he trembles so much, he doesn’t know if he could get it under control. Leaning his head against hers, he tries to clarify, “I don’t know, Allura. I don’t even remember _not_ being like this or anything? Maybe I _wasn’t_ like this, once? But I can’t even… It’s all so…”

It feels like Keith had more to say. Instead, he lets Allura tug him in closer. He takes deep, shuddering breaths, trying not to cry. The door creaks open, and Keith knows damn well that he should let Allura go. If she wanted privacy and if they aren’t alone anymore, then they need to pretend like they’re normal. They need to separate and act like everything is fine. But even as the third round of knocking starts, even as someone whines, Keith closes his eyes and hides his face in Allura’s neck. Whoever’s there can go away. They’re walking in on Keith and Allura, so they can respect that for another couple minutes.

Only a high-pitched, enthusiastic barking makes Keith perk up. He only looks up when Rufus knocks into his and Allura’s legs. Furrowing his brow, Keith blinks down at the little fluff-ball, at his bright, open-mouthed expression. Nothing’s odd about it. He’s making the same inexplicable face that he always wears, as if he’s smiling and as if he’s _so happy_ to be seeing Keith. That’s enough to make Keith wrinkle his nose — no matter how many times he sees this particular look on Rufus, it makes so little sense to him — and he doesn’t shake it off by the time he glances at Kolivan, lingering the doorway. With an illegible, tight-lipped look, he clears his throat. Allura jumps out of Keith’s arms at the sound, and Rufus worms between them, sitting at Keith’s feet and staring up at him expectantly.

“Class does not start for over twenty minutes,” Kolivan points out. “Even by _your_ standards, this seems excessive.”

Allura shrugs too tensely to be convincing. “I was hoping to have a moment with Keith before we started.”

“I just had nothing better to do,” Keith says. “Not to be insubordinate? But you’re way earlier than _your_ usual.”

“Yes. Incidentally, I had also hoped to catch you before anyone else showed up.”

An, _“Ugh”_ slips past Keith’s lips before he can think to stop it.

Under the weight of Kolivan’s pointedly arched eyebrow, Keith sighs. Whether it’s impolite or not, Keith doesn’t care; he takes a step back and sits on the floor with Rufus. Ever ignorant of the human concept of personal space, the little guy trots right into Keith’s and noses at his cheek. He licks at Keith respectfully as Keith ruffles the fur around his neck, then rubs his sides. It gets Rufus to bark and give Keith that happy face of his again. God, Keith wishes he had enough energy to join Rufus in being happy, even if that happiness makes so little sense. Since he doesn’t, though, he settles for attentively scratching at Rufus’s sweet spots and asking under his breath if Rufus knows who the good boy is.

Above their heads, Kolivan sighs impatiently. “Keith. What are you doing after class?”

“Have to go explain myself to Ryner about my midterm essay.” Keith shrugs and chuckles a bit as Rufus sits and starts thumping his leg.

Allura huffs. “Explain yourself _how_?”

“In some way that couldn’t wait for our previously scheduled Wednesday one-on-one, I guess?” But that’s not a helpful answer and Allura deserves so much better, so Keith throws out a few ideas: “It was way over her maximum word-count, for starters. It was a disorganized mess of whining and even more self-indulgent than my classmates’ bullshit about pineapple pizza and their impacted wisdom teeth. I broke the fourth wall to complain about class. More than once.”

As Rufus drops to the floor and exposes his tummy, Keith forces himself not to shrug. He alternates between rubbing and scratching in the way that Rufus loves, and says, “Take your pick on reasons, Princess. I basically nuked my GPA with a single midterm. I didn’t turn in something good enough to justify how much I disregarded Ryner’s rules, and now, she’s probably gonna fail me into the next century—”

“Even if that were going to happen, which it _is not_?” Kolivan’s using his overly measured voice, the one where he’s trying to be patient and Keith’s making it horribly difficult. “Mathematically, you would not destroy your GPA or nullify your hard work by hypothetically failing _one_ class—”

“Well, it sure feels like that—”

“Keith, when I was at Northwestern? I stunningly failed a freshman course _in history_. What department do I head now.”

“Yeah, Kolivan, I read _Building Mindscapes_ , too.” Although he doesn’t stop giving Rufus scratches, Keith looks up. He meets Kolivan’s skeptically quirked eyebrow with one of his own. “I’m just saying: there’s a difference between what I’m doing, and flunking a condescendingly easy freshman class because you were doing your own independent research, working out in the community, and writing your manifestos.”

Kolivan sighs again, and this time, it sounds more tired than anything. “Can you come to my office after your meeting with Ryner?”

Keith shrugs. Without agreeing or disagreeing, he turns his attention back to Rufus. Not that he’d ever skip, when Kolivan’s specifically summoning him like this — but goddamn, though? Practically everything about this morning has gone to Hell in the world’s worst hand-basket. Behind him, a chair scrapes along the linoleum, then scoots up to the table. Kolivan clears his throat again, and under most circumstances, that would probably get his dog snapping to attention. But Rufus is too stoked on Keith’s tummy-rubs right now and all he does is squirm along the floor, contentedly whining at Keith for more, more, more. Fortunately for the little guy, Keith is more than happy to give him that.

Maybe this isn’t making Allura or Kolivan feel better about any of this, and Keith’s probably going to have to answer for it later. Petting Rufus is so much easier than trying to parse through this conversation, its nuances or the parts that Allura and Kolivan deign to say aloud. Everything feels simpler when he’s losing his fingers in Rufus’s long, soft fur, and gently working him over in his favorite ways, and getting rewarded with those soft, whimpering noises like Keith actually does make Rufus happy.

Allura chimes in, “What do you want to meet with Keith about?”

“Thank you for asking,” Kolivan replies. “Since your _migadi_ apparently wants us to believe that he has gotten absorbed in spoiling Rufus.”

“Yes, my _unelinde_ certainly does seem dedicated to this façade…”

Pointedly, Keith asks Rufus once more if he knows who the good boy is, and does he know that it’s him, because oh man, he is _such_ a good boy. Those terms of endearment twist around his chest like Keith’s lungs are being cocooned in rubber bands. _“Migadi”_ is Galran, and the way Kolivan explained it to Keith, the word means something like, _“best friend, comrade in arms, a chosen companion rather than one bound by ties of blood or obligations, a friend whose love and loyalty were forged in fire.”_ Him breaking that word out ought to be reason enough for Keith to pull himself up out of doting on Rufus. It’s a great idea, perfectly solid theory.

Except Keith doesn’t want to talk. He wants to keep it simple, with this dog who only ever asks for Keith’s attention and occasionally, his food. As Kolivan approaches, his footfalls sound like the snare drum before an execution and Keith can’t even find the will to feel unnerved. Judging from how Kolivan huffs, he’s increasingly losing his willingness to put up with his advisee’s shenanigans, and Keith probably deserves that. He probably deserves worse than this. Instead of a full-on chewing-out, all Keith gets is Rufus perking up as his Dad approaches, then settling back onto the floor when Kolivan stops. He towers over Keith and Rufus, hands folded behind his back, and clears his throat again.

“I mean to discuss his essay for Ryner,” Kolivan says. “If Keith will rejoin the rest of us by then.”

Rolling his eyes, Keith deadpans, “Sorry for not wanting to think about how I ruined my entire life with _one essay_ for a class I hate.”

“You have _not_ ruined your entire life, Keith.”

“Well, that’s what it _feels_ like.” Except Keith wilts at the tight, exhausted frown this earns him from Kolivan. “…Yeah, fine, I’ll be there. I needed to ask a question about the application for your TA spot, anyway. Uh, as long as I can still grab lunch before Antok’s class? ‘cause I have an _unelinde_ and a best guy who really won’t be happy with me if I don’t?”

Which makes Kolivan furrow his brow bemusedly, then glance at Allura when Keith doesn’t have an answer for him.

“Keith finds himself enamored with a charming punk rock guy who works at a bookstore,” she says. “But it’s _complicated_ , apparently?”

When she tugs his ponytail, Keith agrees with her. “But we’re working on it. Together. And he’ll be disappointed if I don’t get lunch.”

“Right,” says Kolivan. “Somehow, I feel like our discussion might take a while. After you meet Ryner, go get yourself something from the grab-and-go downstairs. Then, come to my office so we can talk.”

Strictly speaking, Keith prefers not eating at Montgomery Hall’s grab-and-go, or at any of the other similar places around campus. They don’t make people sick nearly as often as folks tend to warn the visiting prospective students, but if Keith’s going to eat school food, then the dining halls feel like the safer bet. You get more say in the choices available to you, when eating at one of them. Still, Kolivan’s putting up with enough from Keith right now. Simply looking up at him makes Keith feel his advisor’s exhaustion enough that his hand stops ruffling over Rufus’s fur. If they’re really gonna have it out about the essay that Keith gave Ryner, then Kolivan’s day isn’t getting any easier.

So, he nods at those conditions, and Kolivan sighs in something like relief.

“You have _not_ ruined your entire life, Keith,” he says again. “The idea is for us to _avoid_ that happening.”

Whether Rufus means to agree with his Dad or simply reclaim Keith’s attention, he hops up from the floor. He saunters into Keith’s lap again, putting forelegs between Keith’s thighs. Getting scritched behind the ears makes him sigh and prop his paws up on Keith’s shoulders instead. It feels like having a snowball shoved down the back of your shirt, blinking down at Rufus’s open mouth and his wide, earnest eyes as he stares up at Keith with more warmth and kindness than most people have ever wanted to show him.

Then, the licking starts again. First, Rufus hits the middle of Keith’s face with a long stroke over his lips and up his nose. Next, still on Keith’s lips, but off to the side. The corner of Keith’s mouth and then his cheek. A few more gentle licks, and a few more, _“Good boy”_ s and long, slow rubs down Rufus’s spine. Then, finally, Rufus pauses, tilting his head like he can’t comprehend what he’s seeing. Keith’s eyes sting as the little guy slides out of focus, and his breath hitches in his throat. Squeezing out the tears doesn’t help. It only brings more of them and when Rufus licks them off Keith’s cheeks, that drags a whine up from the pit of Keith’s chest.

Which is good, objectively, or at least it could be worse. At least it’s not a sob that’s coming out of him. But Keith’s still sitting here on the linoleum, crying in front of people all over again — in front of Allura, who worries about him enough already, and Kolivan, who inexplicably thinks that Keith is worth the time and energy to mentor (which, fuck, is what Keith _wanted_ and Kolivan does not give such consideration to just anybody, so shouldn’t Keith be _happy_?) — and worse, he’s crying over _absolutely nothing_. What kind of person-shaped train-wreck breaks down like this because a dog is being nice to them?

Above him, Keith can make out Allura and Kolivan saying something, but it sounds like he’s hearing them from a mile off, through static and a thunderstorm. The words that Keith does make out, he can’t even recognize, for all he _knows_ good and goddamn well that he knows these fucking words. But even so, they aren’t connecting to their meanings. Allura’s chair drags on the linoleum and Keith holds his breath, expecting to get hugged again. Instead, she darts around Keith and Rufus, heading for the hall, and Kolivan grunts. His hand is huge and warm and heavy on Keith’s shoulder.

“You are _going_ to be alright, Keith,” he says. “You are not right now, but you _will_ be.”

It takes a moment to consider that. Even then, all Keith can come up with is, “Fuck Mondays with a rusty spike.”

Chuckling indulgently, Kolivan pats Keith’s shoulder. “Allura’s getting you some water. I expect you to drink it when she gets back.”

*** * ***

Getting through class feels like someone’s digging around in Keith’s brain with a sledgehammer. If he lags enough to attract notice, though, then at least Kolivan doesn’t call him out on it. When they’re done for the day, he only pats Keith’s shoulder, then tells him not to be late to meet with Ryner.

Fair enough cause for concern, Keith guesses, but he gets to Ryner’s office on the ninth floor before she does. Even with only a few minutes of leaning on the wall by himself, Keith comes up with a slew of apologies that he probably owes Ryner over this bullshit with his essay. They all flood into his brain until the posters on the walls and her door start swimming, muddling together into a mess of color and squiggly lines that Keith recognizes as _words that mean things_ , but he can’t make sense of them. He can barely make himself pick out the letters, much less string any of the words together.

He chokes down a sigh of relief when he hears Ryner’s jangling bracelets and the way she clears her throat. Maybe he wouldn’t say that he’s _happy_ to see her high, pale golden cheekbones, or to silently nod his way through her explanation of how her last class accidentally ran overtime. But everything starts coming back into clearer focus as Ryner unlocks her office and leads Keith inside. He settles opposite her at the desk as always, and it almost feels like they’re going to have a perfectly normal one-on-one.

Except Keith’s heart withers as she takes a stapled clump of papers out of her portfolio.

“So,” Ryner says. “About your essay—”

“I’m sorry, I know it’s overly long,” he blurts out before giving himself the chance to think better of it and hold back like someone with an iota of functional self-control. “I wrote it by hand first and I _knew_ it was getting way too long, but it didn’t feel _complete_ , so I just kept going? And it’s so rough that it’s barely even worth the effort to read, it’s _terrible_ , and I’m sorry, like? I can write a new one by next week and take it more seriously, if you want to please give me that chance — I mean, I’d rather _not_ , but…”

Keith sighs like he might cry again, and he hates how pathetic he sounds as he pleads, “ _Please_ , Ryner? I can’t afford to tank my GPA.”

Pushing her glasses up her nose, Ryner regards Keith with the same unnervingly sympathetic calm as ever. She doesn’t sound the least bit ruffled as she tells him, “This is not a conversation in which you have done anything wrong, Keith. I wanted to meet with you before our Wednesday critique session because you seemed anxious about your standing in the class—”

“Well, _yeah_? I mean, I get that you don’t grade in the same way as Iverson or even Kolivan or Thace? But my financial aid is…”

Holding up her hand makes him trail off, and she looks at him dead-on with those wide eyes that never seem to miss a detail. “I wanted to ask if you intend to ever let me see a second draft of your midterm piece. And, if so, when do you think you can turn one in?”

“But…?” Keith swallows thickly. There is no reason for him to be panting, or even vaguely edging into that territory. No reason why breathing should give him any sort of difficulty or for him to be hearing his heartbeat banging around his ears.

Curling a hand around his knee, Keith manages to take a deep breath. He doesn’t feel any less like he’s on a ship at sea and going to throw up, but at least he manages to say, “It was overly long? All of it was so _whiny_ and _self-indulgent_ and I mean? Look, if nothing else, it definitely _wasn’t_ what you _asked for_? Like, at all?”

“Keith, this is _exactly_ what I have been asking you for.” As if this somehow makes her point, Ryner taps a finger on her printed-out copy of the draft. “ _This_ is the first thing you’ve turned in where you allowed _your own_ voice to shine through.”

“But it didn’t even _connect_ to anything that’s _actually important_?”

Keith might have wandered through a looking-glass without realizing it, but there are still rules. They exist and they govern how the world _works_. Maybe he was wrong about the rule where Shiro isn’t in love with him, and the one where Shiro would never want to be with somebody like him. But no matter how much concern lines Ryner’s face as she frowns at him, Keith absolutely _is not wrong_ about the rule where his bullshit problems are insignificant, compared to literally everything else that’s going on. They aren’t even _problems_ , not really. Even though the pain isn’t helping keep him centered, Keith tightens his grip on his knee and tries to explain himself a little better.

“We’re supposed to write about things we care about and consider _important_ , right? That’s what was in the syllabus,” he gets out, by some miracle that he can’t make himself question, not right now. “But I didn’t do that. Maybe everyone else in class thinks their personal anecdotes are important, but I didn’t… I could’ve even, like? I don’t know, I could’ve talked about the opioid crisis or substance abuse in LGBTQ communities. Or how it’s _bullshit_ that Shiro didn’t get his abuse taken seriously because he’s a tall, muscular, good-looking _guy_. Or I don’t know, I could have talked about something that actually _matters_ to somebody other than _me_?”

Technically, Keith supposes that he _did_ swing that, even if he did it in a way that wasn’t really what he imagined. His essay mattered to Shiro, who falls into the category of, “People Who Are Not Keith Kogane, aged 24, of Texas, then Chicago, and now Kaltenecker University, the son of no one in particular or anyway, if you recognize their names, then congratulations, because you probably know them better than their son does.”

Any revisions would also matter to Shiro. _If_ Keith actually bothers doing any. Which he _shouldn’t_ , because the essay is garbage and Keith only has so much energy that he can afford to give any of his hypothetical pursuits.

Besides, if Keith does any revisions in the future, then Shiro will want to see them. And Keith will show him, because Shiro has a _right_ to see what Keith writes about him and shares with other people. And if Keith shows Shiro those revisions, then Keith has no doubt used up all the good luck that he had allotted for the rest of his earthly existence, so he will fuck things up again, and Shiro will get hurt, and everything will completely fall apart, Shiro will realize how much better he deserves and Keith won’t even be _allowed_ to get upset about it, because if he really loved Shiro, then he would just be happy that Shiro’s moving on and having a better life without Keith there to drag him down, the way Keith always does to everybody who ever tries to love him—

“I’m just saying, Ryner,” Keith bites out, because she’s watching him without saying anything, and he _needs_ to shake himself out of his own thoughts. “Even Augusten Burroughs did a better job of connecting to a bigger context in _Dry_. Yeah, it’s so intensely personal, but he still gets into the AIDS crisis, and those politics, and different aspects of who got valued more or less in the male-male sexual marketplace, at the time? I just whined at you for an absurd number of pages. About a bunch of shit that was _my fault_ in the first place and I didn’t even try to… I don’t _know_?”

“It was a first draft,” Ryner points out with an indulgent smile, as if she’s calmly explaining for a toddler why it simply isn’t feasible for Santa Claus to deliver them a unicorn or a hippopotamus, come December 25th. “I was not expecting you to deliver something publication-ready for your midterm. Comparing your work on this draft to a completed memoir is hardly fair.”

“But it’s not what I _wanted_ ,” Keith groans, unable to stop himself from sounding exactly like said toddler. “Okay, what am I _not_ making clear about this, Ryner? There are bigger problems than me getting all fucked up at you about my _love life_. Those things _matter_.”

Steepling her fingers, Ryner takes a moment before telling him, “I do not doubt that you care deeply about the social and political issues that you have written about in class so far. You’ve even made some compelling arguments about them. But this is not a debate class; it is a class about storytelling. Until this draft, you haven’t allowed yourself to write about anything _freely_.”

“Look at what that got me, though.” Slumping back in his seat, Keith doesn’t let himself roll his eyes. He’s already glowering at Ryner as if doing so will fix anything about the hole that he’s gone and dug for himself, even though he knows it won’t. “All I turned in was a load of pathetic, childish garbage. The entire story is, ‘I fell in love with a boy who I don’t deserve, and I hurt him, and now, I’m gonna make it all about myself like the selfish _ass_ that I am.’ Even if Shiro doesn’t think so, that’s still what I _wrote_ and…”

He trails off into a groan as he realizes what he’s said. Tilting his head back, he sighs, “ _Whatever_.”

Ryner hums pensively. “So. The subject of the essay read it? What did he have to say?”

“He thinks it’s a _solid_ draft.” Keith huffs but doesn’t look away from the dots on the ceiling. “He has a different perspective on some of the events, but of course he does. He probably has more he could say, but…” A shrug. “Mostly, we talked about our lives right now. Then, I was exhausted, we bullshitted a little with one of his roommates, and we went to bed. Non-sexually.”

“Well, if you are adamant about not wanting to get your essay critiqued in class, might I suggest that you discuss it with him? Soliciting feedback from someone you trust could help you with revisions.” She sighs, but Keith’s most likely being more than his fair share of frustrating. “You can also use the revision process to find ways of nuancing your work. Adding in the larger issues that you care about by examining how they affect your personal stories.”

“Shiro said something like that, yeah. But before he read anything. While I was complaining to him about the assignment.”

“It’s good advice,” Ryner says in a way that would sound noncommittal from almost anyone else Keith knows. But from her, this calm tone sounds more like Ryner being relieved to finally get anywhere in this discussion. “I often bring up this perspective with students who are as devoted to their ideals as you. After all, the personal and the political influence each other in countless potential ways.”

“Yeah, because everything is connected and we’re all made from the same cosmic dust, right?”

Always such a comforting idea in theory, until Keith comes back to his inability to feel like any of it is really true of him.

When he finally brings his eyes back to Ryner, she’s giving him one of her chill, inscrutable hippie smiles. “My final suggestions until Wednesday? First, think about how you could separate some of these incidents into individual essays. They are tied to each other and could serve as the backbone of a collection. But separating them could also aid you in the revision process.

“Secondly…” She reaches into her portfolio and pulls out a sheet of paper. “I have compiled a list of readings that you might find some guidance or inspiration in. None of them is required. They are all simply ideas, if such a list might interest you.”

“Sure, I can take a look?” Tightening his ponytail, Keith sighs. “My ‘it’s complicated’ works in another bookstore anyway.”

*** * ***

The first thing that Keith notices about Ryner’s list is the disclaimer that she put at the top: _“I do not expect you to agree with the opinions or perspectives of all the authors on this list. Some of them, I have suggested because I expect you not to agree with them. Disagreement with and critical reflection on all of these readings is absolutely encouraged.”_

Some of the titles she’s put together for him, Keith’s already read, like _Persepolis, Dry, Building Mindscapes, Fun Home_ , and _Times Square Red, Times Square Blue_. Others, he recognizes but hasn’t had a chance to get his hands on yet, like _Exile and Pride, Stone Butch Blues, Assata: An Autobiography, When We Rise: My Life In The Movement_ , Audre Lorde’s _Zami: A New Spelling of My Name_ , and _Becoming A Weapon: My Life in the Blade of Marmora_.

Some, she’s marked off as fiction (like _Confessions of a Mask_ , _The Well of Loneliness_ , Octavia Butler’s _Kindred_ , some book called _Faggots_ that Keith has read about but never read himself, _Dancer From The Dance_ , and _After the Death of Don Juan_ , whose author Keith recognizes because she also wrote _Summer Will Show_ , which also makes it onto the list) or drama (like _The Boys In The Band_ , _The Normal Heart_ , _Long Day’s Journey Into Night_ , _The Glass Menagerie_ , and _Cat On A Hot Tin Roof_ ).

Some, she’s pointed out as a bit closer to scholarship or political invective than her brand of creative nonfiction (like _A Place For Us, This Bridge Called My Back, And The Band Played On_ , and _That’s Revolting!_ ), or as outright scholarship ( _Feeling Backward, Cruising Utopias, Knives of Freedom: People and Politics in the Blade of Marmora_ , _Ladies of Labor, Girls of Adventure_ , a Toni Morrison essay called, “Unspeakable Things Unspoken,” Lillian Faderman’s _The Gay Revolution_ which Keith only knows because Antok’s been writing a review of it, and something called _Stand By Me_ that makes Keith furrow his brow, until he sees that the author is named Jim Downs instead of Stephen King).

The single most shocking thing about the list, though, is how little Keith finds himself objecting to its contents.

While he’s waiting to trade meal money for his sandwich at the grab-and-go, Keith can’t even find it in himself to object to the texts he swaps with Shiro. Sending him, _“Ryner liked my essay. Expecting to be accosted by a Cheshire Cat or stoner Caterpillar or Bizarro any minute now”_ gets Keith a reply of, _“Of course she did. It was great, sleep deprivation notwithstanding.”_ Shiro’s latent, _“I told you so”_ comes on so strongly that Keith actually picks up on it, but he can’t bring himself to call the beautiful, genius idiot out.

Instead, Keith sends him, _“Fine, but are you on-call to save me if the Walrus and the Carpenter carry me off after my meeting with Kolivan?”_

Waiting for the elevator, Keith feels his phone buzz with Shiro’s reply: _“Without invalidating your ability to save yourself? Yes, I will. Always.”_

The as-nice-as-it-ever-gets feelings from that text almost last for Keith’s entire ride up to the twelfth floor. He almost lets himself indulge in the warm, soft feeling that unfolds in the middle of his chest as he rereads those words from Shiro and others that he’s sent before. Looking at one of Shiro’s selfies, Keith has to fight back a blush. That feeling starts teasing up his throat and out through his arms, flowing up his neck and twisting down to the deepest part of his stomach. And he almost lets himself relax into that feeling. He almost lets himself enjoy the way it wraps him up in something that wishes it were armor, instead of tingling or pricking at him like Keith’s right on the verge of spontaneous combustion and should be grateful he even gets a warning.

Except even in the midst of these sensations, Keith feels the threat of them disappearing and leaving him cold again. Not in the same visceral, wrenching, marrow-deep way that he feels this borderline-comforting heat. But the threat dangles over his head, hanging by a thread so thin that it might as well not be there, ready to fall on him at any moment.

At least Rufus starts yapping when Keith knocks on Kolivan’s office door, and Kolivan calls for Keith to let himself in. He’s holding the little guy by his collar as he bids Keith to go sit on the couch — “We may be here for a while,” Kolivan reminds him, “so, make yourself comfortable” — and as Keith sets down his backpack, Rufus bounces like waiting is the worst punishment he could endure. Keith nestles himself against one of the armrests, and before he’s had enough time to really get comfortable, he has Rufus hopping up next to him, alternately licking his cheek and sniffing at the plastic bag in Keith’s lap.

“Not for dogs,” Keith tells him, gently mussing a hand over Rufus’s ears. “Or some of it might be, but most of it’ll make you sick.”

Rufus sits as if he’s waiting for a treat. Dragging over a chair, Kolivan chuckles inscrutably and asks about Keith’s meeting with Ryner. As he settles himself in opposite Keith — close to him but not so close that his presence feels suffocating — he spares Keith any, _“I told you so”_ s and supposes that he can’t blame Keith for waiting until after their Wednesday one-on-one critique to start any _real_ revisions on the essay. But he also supposes that he and Keith have bigger and more important things to deal with. For instance, how Kolivan can be of assistance with the application for his TA spot.

Tucking a piece of hair behind his ear, Keith asks, “So, what do you _mean_ when you say that you want the essay questions answered honestly? Like, in a practical sense? The simplest, most straightforward sense possible?”

Kolivan tells him, “It means what it says. I want you to answer them openly and honestly.”

“Okay, I know you’re socially obligated to say that? But I’m having trouble with the nuances here? Like, can you please break down _exactly_ what you mean?” Trying not to sigh feels impossible, but Keith manages it somehow. He doesn’t even let one slip when Rufus lies down and puts his head on Keith’s thigh.

Kolivan remains unshakable: “There are no nuances. Answer the questions _honestly_.”

“Yeah, you _say_ that now and I’m not saying that you don’t _believe_ it?” But Keith hasn’t been here five minutes and he’s feeling like Rufus’s presence is the only thing keeping him from banging his head against the wall. Vaguely, it occurs to him that this might’ve been Kolivan’s intent in bringing Rufus to school with him on a Monday, but if it was, Keith isn’t arguing.

“Like, people _always_ say things like that before learning things they don’t know,” he explains. “So, what kind of honesty are we talking about? Is it, ‘Bring up the things that you wouldn’t tell your Grandmother but _would_ confide in your friends’ honesty? Or, ‘Things you’d feel comfortable discussing at a cocktail party with Dean Zarkon and Honerva’ honesty? ‘Act like you’re Catholic and on your deathbed and confessing to a priest’? ‘If you wouldn’t want it in your author profile on the back of a book, then don’t mention it’? I _just_ …”

Keith only keeps from sighing because he scratches the back of Rufus’s neck. “I need a better frame of reference? _Please_?”

For a long moment, Kolivan watches Keith in silence. He wipes off his glasses as if cleaning the lenses will somehow give him deeper insight into what he’s dealing with. Judging from the way he frowns at Keith, Kolivan doesn’t find any answers. At best, he doesn’t find any that he enjoys. Tuned in as ever, or possibly demanding attention that he feels he isn’t getting enough of, Rufus huffs and adjusts himself on Keith’s leg. Obligingly, Keith scratches the top of his head. He tries to focus on this, on getting Rufus to make that contented sigh that’s almost like purring, until Kolivan clears his throat.

“This is still a professional situation, so I do not want you answering the questions as though you are idly scribbling in your personal journal.” Leaning toward Keith with his hands folded in his lap, Kolivan speaks with the overly measured calm Keith expects from someone who’s stuck arguing with a stubborn toddler about questions that make no sense. “Find a way to present your answers that suits the context but also does not censor yourself to the point that you might as well be lying to me.”

“Okay, I get that you already know me, but—”

“For example,” Kolivan continues as though Keith didn’t attempt to talk over him. “Do not phrase some of your previous employments as, ‘Sucking cock at a truckstop in Middle of Nowhere, West Virginia, trying to make my way up to Chicago.’”

“ _What_ ,” Keith splutters as his insides freeze over.

Staring at Kolivan, he can’t feel where his heart’s gotten off to. When Kolivan shrugs and admits that he was paraphrasing because Keith’s exact words currently escape him, all Keith feels is a gaping hole in his chest where _something_ ought to be beating. The hand he has on Rufus stills to a dead halt. The other one clamps down on Keith’s knee, trembling so hard, his arm might shake itself clean off his shoulder. This can’t be happening, except it is. Kolivan _cannot_ have just brought up Keith taking strangers’ dicks into his mouth for money or a ride. Except Keith scrunches up his face, looking to his advisor for some sign that he’s exaggerating, and Kolivan doesn’t budge or point out the hidden camera.

Keith slowly shakes his head, hoping that it might shake a few words loose. For fuck’s sakes, he can’t sit here all afternoon, mouth flopping open and closed like he’s a dying fish. But nothing about this makes sense. Did Keith mention that in the essay? It stands to reason that Kolivan’s seen it, given why he asked Keith here. But Keith doesn’t think that it came up? He didn’t put it in his paper for Kolivan’s midterm. He’s never spoken about it to Kolivan, why would he? There’s no decent way to bring it up with someone who inexplicably believes that Keith’s worth mentoring, even though he’s a mess who’s getting the advice he wanted and can’t think of anything to say—

“Utilize your resourcefulness and creativity,” Kolivan says, almost gently, and shaking Keith out of his thoughts but only barely. “Find a way to say things that _could_ allow you to mention such things at a cocktail party with Dean Zarkon and Honerva. Not that you _would_ mention trading oral sex for passage north. But think of how you might phrase it in such a setting, if you were to do that deliberately.”

“Can we back up a second?” Keith’s voice blurts out for him. “Am I hallucinating, or on _glue_ , or did you just mention—”

“Things that you wrote in your project journals from last year? Yes, I did.”

“You actually _read_ all of those?”

“Why would I assign something and _not_ read what you turned in?” Kolivan says as if it’s really just that easy.

“Okay, but the project definitely _wasn’t_ about sucking dick?” Keith doesn’t know about his classmates, but _his_ project was about LGBTQ protests and political organization during the heyday of the AIDS crisis _other_ than the work done by ACT-UP.

Nodding, Kolivan explains, “Everyone in the class went on tangents about their personal lives at some point. Yours, I had an actual interest in.”

“I… It was a joke,” Keith’s tongue spits out without asking him for his consent. “Elaborate joke, made in incredibly poor taste. Sleep-deprivation, right? I’m sorry for making you get _concerned_? Or for whatever I made you feel? But I was being morbid, not talking about anything that actually happened. Not to _me_ , anyway.”

That should get Keith out of this, right? Most people don’t want to believe what he’s lived through. Making an excuse should work.

Kolivan arches an eyebrow and peers at Keith over the rims of his glasses. “If that were true, then why are you so perturbed by the fact that I read those sections?”

This might be easier if he were looking at Keith with a warning on his face. _“Do not lie to me, advisee”_ makes so much more sense than this pointed, curious, expectant staring that makes Keith’s lungs writhe like they want to burst out of his chest. It’d even be easier if Kolivan were looking at Keith like a game or a particularly perplexing slide beneath a microscope, with no subtle edge of what might be sympathy and no overtones of obvious concern.

Instead, he’s giving Keith an expression that would fit so much better on Coran, leaving Keith with a cold, heavy sensation in the pit of his stomach.

“I’m not _perturbed_ ,” he tries, hoping that his voice doesn’t quiver as much as he feels it does. “I feel bad. I did a bad thing, I fucked up. I thought I was being funny and I didn’t mean to… I don’t _know_? Whatever I did or made you feel with those parts. I didn’t _mean_ that, I was being morbid—”

“If that were the case, then why were the details so consistent through the different entries?”

“Accidentally, okay? It’s feasible, it could happen—”

“And if no such things ever happened to you, then why did you dismiss the importance of those experiences? The same way that you did your symptoms of strep throat?” Both eyebrows arch as Kolivan prods Keith with, “If you did not endure what you wrote, then why are you so insistently dismissing them?”

“…… _Fuck_ ,” Keith huffs, slumping back against the sofa.

The sudden movement rouses Rufus. After a moment, though, he nuzzles back into Keith’s leg.

“But you didn’t even put check marks on a lot of the pages? Like?”

“Advisor or not, Keith? It is not my job to pass judgment on your personal life. Especially not what you did when you were _eighteen_.” With a sigh, Kolivan leans back and pushes his glasses up his nose. “Even if I disapproved of you using your wits and available resources to survive, your past _normally_ doesn’t matter to me nearly as much as your present and your future do.”

Keith blows at a stray piece of hair, which droops back over his eye. “Why even bring it up, then?”

“First, because I have become concerned for your well-being.” Probably, most people would mistake Kolivan’s tone for clinical and detached and even overly firm, considering the topic of discussion.

But Keith picks up on the kind notes lurking between all that as Kolivan tells him, “Under most circumstances, I admire and respect your self-reliance. At present, however, I find it troubling. Also, your preferred method for dealing with your problems is to handle some, dismiss all others, and expect the latter group to disappear. This approach is not working.”

Keith stares at the ceiling. Looking at Kolivan right now is too fucking hard. He mutters, “I can’t believe this is happening…”

“I can’t believe that it took so long for you to make a conversation like this unavoidable.”

“Why do you still want me to be your TA, knowing all that? Or knowing that I’m, I dunno…” Keith groans. “Knowing that I’m _unstable_?”

“For the same reasons that I provided before,” says Kolivan. “You are qualified. We work well together. I value your work and your perspectives. The position would help you, and I would appreciate not needing to waste time establishing a new rapport with someone who is not my first choice.”

“And I’d have health insurance, right?” Keith deadpans. He probably sounds ungrateful, and Jesus fuck, he should care about that.

At least Kolivan’s voice stays even as he replies, “True, but I wanted to limit our focus to the reasons you cannot dismiss so easily.”

“What was the other reason for bringing this up?” Keith grumbles and ruffles Rufus’s fur.

“Quite simply?” Kolivan says. “An intelligent, creative, capable young man, whom I hold in high regard, is trying to use his past in ways I cannot abide.”

For all he says nothing, Keith looks down from the ceiling. He furrows his brow at Kolivan, at the way his tight frown is so sympathetic and his eyes are so soft, even as he fixes them on Keith.

“You are using what you did at eighteen to justify not pursuing an opportunity that would benefit you, and which you are qualified for,” he says, intent and unwavering without sounding harsh. “You are using the pain you’ve endured and the ways in which you have survived? To claim that you don’t deserve _better_ than your current lot. I am _telling you_ , Keith: you. Deserve. This. Chance. The world needs your talents, and you _deserve_ to flourish.”

_That isn’t how it…_

_Fuck._

_Like, all of it sounds so great in theory, Kolivan, but……_

_**Fuck.**_

Keith’s breath hitches. When his chest _does_ let him draw in anything, his whole body shudders. Dimly, he wishes that his cheeks would burn, or his eyes would sting, or a sob might come out of him without waiting for permission. Crying sucks. Crying in front of other people is even worse. Crying in front of Kolivan right now would probably ruin everything for Keith, confirm for Kolivan exactly what he’s betting on by nurturing Keith in any capacity, confirm that he was right in the first place and he never should’ve taken Keith on as an advisee in the first place.

Still, it’d be so much better than feeling empty. Not even feeling _nothing_ , because as disconcerting as it gets, that would be an improvement on this, too. No, that isn’t it. Keith blinks at Kolivan, then at the ceiling. He sighs as he looks down at Rufus and Rufus turns his eyes up as if he’s asking why Keith isn’t inviting him to show his tummy and get it rubbed. Back at Kolivan, Keith slips into making eye-contact with an ease that he almost never finds and nothing in him feels unsettled, because it doesn’t feel like there’s anything left in him at all.

He’s _empty_ , hollowed out and left only with the knowledge that he should be feeling _something_.

“Keith,” Kolivan prods, when he tires of staring Keith down and getting nowhere.

“I don’t know what to say,” Keith’s mouth puts out there for him. “Or what you want me to say.”

“I want you to be honest with yourself, so for now, that answer will do. Would you like to move on?”

“Not particularly, but I guess we have to?” Keith lets himself drop his head back onto the cushion again. “Since I guess Ryner didn’t think that my midterm essay was total _garbage_ , I’m not sure what there is to talk about? Unless she, I dunno? Wanted your opinion on my approximate level of sleep-deprivation?”

“For what it’s worth, she informed me that she was reaching out to all of her students’ advisors. Her idea was to get assistance in crafting tailored lists of recommended readings.” Kolivan huffs, and Keith thinks he hears Kolivan’s heavy braid thumping against the back of his chair. “However, she also mentioned that she saw in it several causes for concern. Based on what I have read so far myself? I agree. I don’t want to make my concern over your well-being _official_ —”

“ _Oh my **God**_ ,” Keith groans. But he doesn’t have the energy to sustain that level of complaining as he says, “Why do we even need to talk about it in that way? Like, what about the First Amendment? Freedom of speech, right? Why can’t I write an essay about my bullshit non-problems _without_ any, I don’t know, interruption?”

It isn’t the word Keith wants. In the dank back corners of his mind, a blended chorus of former counselors’ voices screech at him about keeping his cool this, and remembering his vocabulary that, and trying harder not to seem autistic. But God, this is so unfair, and since Kolivan already knows about him, Keith doesn’t _want_ to put any effort into sounding less autistic.

For fuck’s sakes, Keith didn’t write anything too much worse than some of the stuff that official clubs and student organizations have published using school funding. Last year, the Students Against Censorship group put out a questionable pamphlet about the artistic merits of the Marquis de Sade. Before that, the campus horror-lovers club started putting out a semi-regular zine full to the brim of torture-porn and worse, both written and pictorial. _The Laurel Wreath_ , one of Kaltenecker U’s student literary arts publications, has been in hot water about what they choose to print on and off since the fucking 1940’s, before either of Keith’s parents was even _alive_ , probably before the grandparents he’s never known even thought that they might someday have a fuck-up grandson to disgrace their families.

But all that Keith gets from pointing this out is the sound of Kolivan clearing his throat, and a flat, unmoving stare.

“The First Amendment is not relevant in this situation because no one from the government is trying to censor you,” he explains, downright indulgently by his usual standards. “Considering how you know that it technically wasn’t relevant in any of those situations either, you have no ability to claim that you don’t know this.”

“But nobody gets sent to Coran’s or Zarkon’s office for writing about why they’re a total feminist ally for jerking off to _The 120 Days of Sodom_!” Keith could probably sound more petulant, but he doesn’t want to try it. Mussing his fingers along Rufus’s side, he sighs. “They’re allowed to put that shit out there without consequence, but I get the third-degree for writing about the guy I’m in love with?”

“You are not getting the third-degree, and you are not in trouble.” A noncommittal noise, like the vocal equivalent of a shrug. “Save, perhaps, in the sense that you currently seem _troubled_.”

“God,” Keith snaps, “ _this_ is why I didn’t want to write about my personal garbage for Ryner’s class!”

“Hmm. Truly?” Kolivan deadpans, then waits for Keith to look at him again. His expression is so uncharacteristically even that it sends a chill shuddering through Keith’s chest. “I thought that you did not want to share the details of your personal life with classmates who barely know you. I was under the impression that you didn’t appreciate being made to treat an upper-level writing course as _group therapy_.”

“Well, yeah, that too, but—”

“I did _not_ think that you wanted to conceal things from people who are already intimately familiar with you.” He doesn’t frown, but he presses his lips so thin that he might as well go all in. “People who you _know_ are not judging you — or, if you are not fully aware of that, then we have tried to prove this to you.”

“That isn’t like…” Keith splutters, before he’s caught up to his thoughts. “I am _not_ saying just… Nothing I’m saying is, like?”

“What _are_ you saying, Keith?”

A heavy sigh and another shake of his head. “I don’t know.”

Kolivan pointedly arches his eyebrow. Keith shrugs, and his advisor’s lips twitch. But Kolivan still refuses to let them frown.

“Would you like to reconsider that answer, Keith?” he says.

For all he wants to just say, _“No,”_ Keith knows better than to press his luck like that. He’s already pressing it enough, and he doesn’t see himself stopping, no matter how much he should. Silently, he burrows back into the sofa’s cushions and about the only thing he can hear is static. The same static that’s taken to filling his skull whenever he lets it have an inroad, lately.

He sighs and closes his eyes and tries to focus on his breathing. But it doesn’t help him clear his head. It doesn’t reignite any thoughts, much less point Keith at how he might express them or help him relocate any of his words. All the static remains, crackling in a way Keith wishes he could describe as sinister. If it were sinister, then it’d be some degree of sentient and Keith could blame the static for plaguing him. It wouldn’t be a sign of something likely being wrong with him. As he combs his fingers through Rufus’s long, soft fur, Keith keeps coming up blank. He keeps coming up with nothing but that sound like poorly-tuned radios and excitable kids popping an entire mile of bubble-wrap.

Slumping back as much as the sofa will let him, Keith gives up and lets his mouth take over: “I _don’t_ know what I was trying to say. I didn’t sleep well last night. This whole thing with Shiro’s been throwing me through a million loops. Not even _bad_ loops, there’ve been good ones, too? Like, he wants to be with me too, and I wanted it but I never saw it coming, but at the same time, it’s been like… And I don’t know, I just want…”

“You just _want_ …?” Kolivan prods, quietly.

Dragging a hand through his loose hair, Keith sighs. “Right now? All I want is for Shiro to kiss me ’til all of this just _stops_.”

Silence. Something heavy drops onto Keith’s shoulder. He wrinkles his nose, and needs to blink at it for a moment before he realizes what’s going on. It’s Kolivan’s hand. Kolivan’s eyes shine with something that Keith almost thinks is gentleness, and in a way that’s almost reassuring, he rubs at Keith’s shoulder and the top of his bicep. He even supposes that it might indeed be very nice, if losing oneself in a romantic entanglement could tune out the aspects of life that resist all attempts at easy resolution.

“Unfortunately, it doesn’t work that way,” Kolivan says. “Mental health does not, nor does life in general.”

Keith hunches around himself and looks down at Rufus. “I’m _not_ crazy.”

“No one is saying that you are. Only that you are neither well nor taking the best care of yourself — which _is not_ sustainable—”

“Has my work in your class suffered? Has anyone else but _Ryner_ complained about my work?”

Keith’s face flushes hot and he doesn’t know why. He drops his hand back to his knee and squeezes on it like a stress-ball, and he doesn’t know why. Something sticks in his throat and makes him want to scream, and he does not know why. Concern isn’t something he should be so allergic to, and he tries not to glare as Kolivan watches him so carefully. Holy fuck, though, Keith still wants to punch something — a window, another jukebox, a brick wall, someone twice his size who wouldn’t hesitate to hit him back — and he _knows_ that it’s because Kolivan has a hint of something like disappointment in the curl of his mouth, but Keith has _no idea why_ or what connects these things at all.

“First correction: Ryner has not complained about your work.” Kolivan folds his hands in his lap as if he needs to wring them so he won’t itch to hit something, himself. “She told _me_ that your midterm essay is the best thing you’ve handed in all semester. Likewise, your work for Thace, Antok, and your Gothic Literary Traditions course has, to the best of my knowledge, continued to be exceptional. I have no complaints about your performance—”

“So, why are we making _any_ kind of deal out of this—”

“Because this _will not last_ , Keith. You have limits, and someday, you _will_ hit them—”

“But I have my work right now, don’t I? Why does anything else even…” Keith tries to force a groan out of himself, but it comes out as a whine. Knocking his head against the back of the sofa wouldn’t accomplish anything, but God, Keith wishes that it would. Still, he forces himself to say, “I have my work, and I’m not gonna do _anything_ to myself, so why is any of this a _problem_ , like? It isn’t affecting anything that really _matters_ , so why the _fuss_?”

For a long moment, Kolivan says nothing. That’s enough to set gooseflesh pricking up along Keith’s arms, but the way Kolivan sighs

“Sometimes, Keith?” he says. “You remind me so much of Lucas.”

Keith frowns at the bored-looking Sheltie using his leg as a pillow. He remembers a Lucas who was in one of Kolivan’s classes with him, last year. But he was a spoiled brat like Lotor, not someone who’d merit the _exhaustion_ that’s dulling Kolivan’s eyes. Any time Keith heard his advisor say anything about that Lucas, it was to complain about how he expected to skate by with the minimal effort that he put into the course. And then, it clicks—

“Wait, your old friend?” Keith blurts out. “The one you lived with when you first moved to New York?”

Kolivan nods gingerly, and Keith can’t believe that he had to think about who Kolivan might have meant. _That_ Lucas is a completely different story from Former Student Lucas. He showed up in personal anecdotes all over _Building Mindscapes_ , Kolivan’s old hometown friend and New York roommate. He’d proofread Kolivan’s manifestos before letting him publish them anywhere, and he’d been more than understanding, all the times when Kolivan came up short on his share of the rent after putting out some new zine, no matter how many times it happened. While Kolivan was writing his doctoral dissertation at Columbia, he and Lucas got called agitators and radicals — and okay, in fairness, Lucas was a self-identified Socialist, if Keith recalls correctly?

For the most part, though? Those dismissive titles fell on them because they worked with other LGBTQ people who weren’t Manhattan’s wealthy, inoffensively respectable gay elite, the men who could afford to rent huge houses on Fire Island for the whole summer or to shell out dues for membership at exclusive discos like The Saint. Kolivan and Lucas got told to shut up and quit being so serious because they tried getting other people in their communities to _care more_ about everything from how alleged anti-crime legislation would unfairly punish LGBTQ people, to the mysterious so-called, “gay cancer” that started cropping up and killing people and being resoundingly ignored by the mainstream media. One of the reasons why Antok stood out enough among the other guys Kolivan saw or slept with — one of the single biggest reasons, he’s said, why Antok lasted long enough to become his husband — was how he listened, even though he usually had a different approach, and how he rarely ever said the words, _“Please calm down.”_

Which Keith respects, both generally and because Kolivan wrote about it how he did, but—

“I’m not following? I mean, I read what you put in the book about him, but what’s the connection to _me_?” Racking his brain for ideas is hard, through his mental static’s attempts at creeping back in. Keith blurts one out as soon as he finds it: “Look, not that I’ve been having sex with _anybody_ lately? Even with Shiro being back? But I always keep condoms in my wallet. If my box runs out, they still have bowls of them at health services and the office of student life. Not that I _want_ to risk seeing Coran or Zarkon when I’m elbow-deep in rubbers, but better that than…”

Kolivan’s sober, dispirited scowl makes Keith trail off. It’s might be a miracle that he doesn’t let himself cower.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. “I didn’t mean… That was disrespectful. Completely. I know he meant a lot to you, I didn’t—”

Kolivan clears his throat to cut Keith off, and then explains, “I was not referring to the way that Lucas died. That is a _part_ of things, yes, as is the fact that he concealed his diagnosis from me so that I would not keep him from working for our cause. Disseminating information, trying to rouse people’s interest in our concerns, trying to keep people from forgetting the fight for gay liberation—”

“I’m still not really—”

“You value your _work_ more than your well-being. Yes, your talents are significant and you have great potential. Your work could be significant, not only in the field of history. But only if you are _alive_ and well enough to continue doing it.”

“I’m not a _suicide risk_ ,” Keith snaps. His entire face flushes. Heat spills from his cheeks down onto his neck. He’s going to throw up, he can _feel_ it, right now, as he’s digging his fingertips into his knee so hard, he wouldn’t be surprised if he left bruises. But he also brought up something Kolivan didn’t, so he forces himself to bite out, “I’m not sick and avoiding treatment—”

“Precedent says that you _have_ done such a thing and could do so again—”

“For _strep throat_ , not HIV! They give out free STI tests every year at orientation week. _Mine. came. back. clean_.”

Not that Keith can’t make out Kolivan’s actual point, though. It makes him sigh at the ceiling and wish the sofa would swallow him up. Getting sucked into some Narnia or Goblin Kingdom that’s hidden in the couch oughta be extenuating circumstances enough. Should give Keith a free excuse for not acknowledging the way people insist on worrying about the alleged significance of him refusing to consider that he had anything more than a nasty, stubborn cold until he could barely speak, had to break himself to stay awake, and ran a fever so hot that he could’ve kept the entire classroom heated if the power had gone out. Hey, he wouldn’t even be here in the first place, so how could he address any of that crap? Maybe he could solve Jareth’s labyrinth and, instead of saving a little brother, he’d find the magic he needs to get people off his back and/or fix all of Shiro’s problems for him, seeing as _Shiro_ has actual problems.

Keith only has a passel of nonsense that nobody else would have any trouble handling, he’s certain.

Except things don’t work like that. There is nowhere else Keith can run away to by burrowing against the sofa like a freaking mole. He won’t keep himself in Kolivan’s good graces if he stays leaned back like this, refusing to meet Kolivan’s eyes as if not looking at him renders Keith invisible to his advisor. Moreover, it doesn’t matter what Keith meant, or how he got them on this track more accidentally than not; he’s already started something. If he’s gonna do that, then he at least owes Kolivan respect enough to take it seriously. Keith opened the door. He has no right to hide from what’s on the other side of it.

With a heavy sigh, he drags his head back up and stares at Kolivan’s nose. “I am not _hurting myself_ ,” Keith says. “I am not hurting anybody else. I don’t want to do either of those things, and I don’t feel like I’m going to. Where is the big deal.”

Kolivan doesn’t miss a beat, telling him, “The _big deal_ , in your words, comes from examining your _patterns_ of behavior. To my knowledge, keeping prophylactics in your wallet is one of the only things you have done lately that shows any concern for your well-being. You ignore your problems or deny their existence, which prohibits you from addressing them. The fact that you remain in such good academic standing despite your lack of regard for yourself and at best questionable approach to self-maintenance? Is either a miracle or a testament to your dedication—”

“Why not both,” Keith mutters.

“That is not pertinent, right now,” says Kolivan, nudging his seat closer to Keith and leaning toward him. “Your attitudes and behaviors of late have given me cause for concern. What you said just now, about still having your work? It reminds me too much of something Lucas said during one of our last conversations before his death. Something that I did not put into _Building Mindscapes_.”

Kolivan pauses, folding his hands between his knees. He watches Keith for a moment, but he’s the one who looks away. As Kolivan turns his gaze toward the floor, his breathing stays even enough that there shouldn’t be any reason for Keith to notice this or find it odd. Except that the quiet grates on Keith’s nerves like cheese. The back of his neck burns like he can feel all of them getting worn down to their fraying edges. His tongue darts out across his lips. Closing his eyes, Keith can’t tell if he heave a sigh or lets slip a growl. Nothing in his mind stills or quiets enough to cut through the static. The only things that do come in faintly: first, an impulse scratching at the roof of his mouth like a cat at a door, telling Keith to hurry up and say something. Speak up now or he’ll regret it.

The second thing claws at his throat instead, sinking in talons that try to block each breath that Keith draws in. His head should be spinning, but he stays grounded enough to get dogged by the thought that maybe, he shouldn’t bother piping up this time. Maybe there’s nothing he can say right now. Maybe the most respectful thing would be to listen more attentively, rather than running off his mouth at Kolivan, the way that Keith always does.

Keith only lets up his grip on his knee because it gets so tight, he makes himself whine. Next to him, Rufus hops up to a seated position and drops his chin onto Keith’s shoulder. He’s probably making some earnest, wide-eyed, pleading face, but Keith doesn’t open his eyes until Kolivan clears his throat. Once he does, Keith only looks at his advisor.

Voice clear and tight and sober, Kolivan doesn’t take his eyes off Keith, telling him, “Here is what I stand to get out of helping you, since you do not currently seem open to believing that I am concerned about you for your own sake: I do not want you endure anything like what happened to Lucas. I do not want to see a bright, talented young man whom I hold in high regard and who I want to see succeed work himself into the ground. I do not want to hear you speak of your own life as meaningless, or say that the importance of any cause means that you could serve more people by dying than by living.”

He nudges his seat even closer to the sofa and his braid thumps against the back of his chair. “Watching that happen once was more than enough for my lifetime, Keith,” he says. “If helping you to get well can keep me from seeing it happen again, then I want to do so. Also, being your advisor makes your well-being a matter of interest to me. Do you understand.”

Taking a deep, shivering breath, Keith nods. He should have something else to say, but all he’s got is static.

“Good. To this end, you have an appointment with one of the counselors at student health services this afternoon.” Kolivan breaks off for long enough to allow himself a sigh. Looking at Keith over the rim of his glasses, he says, “I _strongly suggest_ that you go to it.”

Keith huffs. He tilts his head so Rufus can lick his cheek and not his jaw. He points out, “I didn’t schedule anything?”

“I know. Fortunately, they only asked me for your name and student ID number.”

Kolivan shrugs as if he does this sort of thing every day. More likely, he sees it as a necessary violation of his personal sense of ethics. Under most circumstances, he wouldn’t do something like this. He didn’t even do it during Keith’s bout with strep.

God, Keith must’ve _really_ fucked up bad, if he’s forced Kolivan’s hand like this.

Still, there is the issue of— “I don’t have health insurance.”

“In this situation, you don’t need it,” Kolivan says so matter-of-factly that he must’ve known Keith would try to make this argument. Considering how many times they’ve had that debate, he likely did. But that doesn’t make Keith’s stomach settle any as Kolivan explains, “Ten free sessions with the counselors are included in the student activities fee when you pay your tuition. It allows you to join student organizations, submit to student publications, visit the student gym — and talk to a professional when you need help.”

“Which I clearly do, in your opinion?”

_And Allura’s. And probably Shiro’s. Probably Hunk’s and Shay’s, too. Pidge has had two conversations with me and she can probably see it. Even Lance said that I should_ — Keith shakes his head before dropping it onto the back of the sofa. In lieu of a cheek that doesn’t require stretching to reach, Rufus leans over to lick all up and down Keith’s neck.

Keith sighs at the ceiling. “What’s going to happen if I don’t go?”

Kolivan takes a moment and hums pensively before saying, “In the short term, I am not sure. Certainly, I will be disappointed and more concerned than I already am. But my scheduling this appointment aside, you _are_ an adult. I have no intention of punishing you like a child if you skip your appointment. It will, however, count as one of your ten, so only nine will remain for the rest of the academic year, should you decide to make use of them.”

“And in the long-term?” Keith closes his eyes. At his side, Rufus whimpers.

Again, Kolivan considers this for a moment before giving Keith an answer: “I may need to make my concern official with the office of student life. Which would create immense trouble for both of us, especially for you. Depending on how far that goes, it _could_ threaten everything you’ve worked for—”

“Coran wouldn’t let anything that bad happen to me,” Keith’s voice says for him, without conviction or any life at all. He should stop. What he’s saying probably isn’t true, and Keith’s likely exacerbating the hole that he’s already dug himself. But as he hugs himself, his voice keeps going: “I mean, he probably only likes me because I treat Allura like a _person_ instead of a means to an end, but? He wouldn’t let me get expelled or anything.”

“Depending on how the process went and how you comported yourself during it, Coran’s influence might not be enough.” The sole of Kolivan’s shoe drags along the carpet and he sighs. “So, neither of us wants for me to drag the bureaucracy into this situation. One of the best ways to avoid that is for you to go to your appointment.”

Keith nods, and Kolivan thanks him almost gently. Keith huffs, and Rufus pulls himself up, paws on Keith’s shoulders, so he can resume licking Keith’s cheek.

“So, what else is on your mind today?” Kolivan says, after giving Keith a bit to dwell in his mind-static. “Related to any of this or not?”

_Nothing_ , Keith’s brain tells him to say.

_Shiro and Allura deserve better than being so worried about me_ , screams Keith’s heart, writhing inside his chest like it might give out at any moment. _They don’t deserve being saddled with me, even if they don’t see it that way. Why can’t I just handle things on my own? I’m always alone in the end anyway. Why do I keep wanting anything from anybody else?_

But his mouth spits out, “Strictly hypothetically right now? Why would Coran hypothetically tell me to talk to you about a _hypothetical_ knife? And to show it to you? Or to get _your_ opinion about certain markings that it _hypothetically_ has?”

Keith picks his head up right on time to see Kolivan pinching the bridge of his nose.

“The knife is not hypothetical, is it?” When Keith shakes his head, Kolivan groans into his palm. “Do you have it in your backpack?”

That knocks the lie right out of Keith. “How could you even _tell_?” he splutters.

“I _hoped_ that I would be wrong.” Frowning in either exhaustion or disappointment, Kolivan asks, “Why do you have a knife on _campus_?”

“It’s _legal_.” Tension jolts through Keith’s shoulders. “I have a permit for it.”

“That isn’t what I asked.”

“Hey, Coran said he wouldn’t rat me out as long as I didn’t get caught or show it to anyone but you.”

Half-slouching, Kolivan drags his hand down his face. “That also is not what I asked.”

“Ugh, I’m protective of it, _okay_?” Keith snaps, whining more than he means to. “It’s one of the only things I have of my Mom’s. One of the only ties I have to her family _at all_. I don’t like being without it. Or not knowing for sure where it is.”

Huffing, he adds, “Also? You never know when you might need a knife.”

“One of the times when you _shouldn’t_ ,” Kolivan says, “is when you are on campus. If anyone finds out but Coran or I, you will risk _expulsion_. Thace and Antok could also be convinced to look the other way, at personal expense, but…”

Keith lets Kolivan have a second when he trails off. But then he asks, “So, will you take a look at it? Tell me anything you know?”

Kolivan doesn’t say as much, but his agreement sounds a lot like, _“Only because you have had an exceptionally difficult time lately, advisee.”_

Stifling a sigh, Keith nudges Rufus down and gets the knife out of his backpack’s front pocket. He can’t allow himself to sigh right now. Not when he’s so lucky that Kolivan isn’t ratting him out for this, but taking the hilt when Keith holds it out for him. He’s so eerily quiet as he slides the blade out of its sheath, it makes Rufus’s dog-tags sound like they’re clattering into each other as he puts his head back on Keith’s leg. Under the fluorescent lights, the blade gleams with that hint of color that’s either bluish or vaguely violet. In the past nineteen years, Keith’s never made up his mind on which. As long as he keeps the blade cleaned and sharpened, it can be whatever color it pleases.

Either way, Kolivan’s eyebrows leap up and he gives a low, impressed whistle.

“I haven’t seen a luxite blade in _ages_ ,” he says. “At least, not one that I wasn’t already familiar with. Antok and I each have one ourselves—”

“You’re _joking_ ,” Keith cuts in. Furrowing his brow, he gapes at this knife he knows so well and tries to see it the same way he did, this morning. “Kolivan, my knife _can’t_ be luxite. That stuff’s _expensive_. And _rare_. My Mom and Dad were a pair of broke, no-name twenty-somethings from Middle-of-Nowhere, _Texas_ —”

“Your knife _is_ luxite, Keith. The indigo glint to the metal is unmistakable. It is likely rather old, as well. Mining luxite is difficult and dangerous, and there is so little of it left to be found in any _known_ deposits? People rarely use it to make any knives anymore.” Arching an eyebrow, Kolivan tells him, “Knives like this exclusively came from Daibazaal, before its fall, the same as most luxite knives.”

“ _Daibazaal_?” Keith blurts out, tightening his hold on himself.

“Indeed. In ages past, knives made in this style were used as ceremonial tools. As time went on, however, they became a sign of a family’s social status.” Arching an eyebrow at Keith, he clarifies, “The families who passed knives like this down were not necessarily _nobility_ or the elite, but they certainly were not among the common people, either.”

Keith shakes his head. It does nothing to change the scene or wake him up. “Okay, that doesn’t make any _sense_ … Kolivan, it’s _impossible_?”

“I am simply reporting my observations and preliminary conclusions, as you requested,” Kolivan says with a shrug, and squints at the markings on the knife. “If you require further evidence: this is amethyst on the hilt. Northern Daibazaal has several veins which yield that particular quartz. It is one of the most highly-prized gemstones in Galran culture.”

All of which sounds well and good? Except Keith can’t make heads or tails of it, certainly not enough to _say_ anything like someone who knows how to carry on an actual adult conversation. For now, he’s fine with sitting quietly while Kolivan looks at the markings more closely.

Three of them are on the blade, arranged in a triangle. On top is a crescent moon, shaped almost like a C-cedilla except for how the tail goes longer and twists around itself. At the left base is a flame with a halo; at the right is a snake eating its own tail, with an infinity sign in the middle. The most confusing of the lot, though, is on the hilt, right below the blade. That carving is jagged and deep, inlaid with some hard, roughly-hewn, purple substance that might be a gemstone, except for the fact that it _can’t_ be. Sometimes, Keith sees a knife when he takes in that shape; other times, he thinks that it could be a bolt of lightning. But he’s quite certain that it _cannot_ be inlaid with gemstone.

Maybe Keith could’ve done more in his life to look for any of those symbols in any books or records, anywhere. Watching Kolivan frown and trace his fingertips over those markings, Keith can’t help but wonder if he would’ve gotten anywhere with that search, if he’d found more effort to put into it. He might’ve dug deeper on the Internet, whenever he’s had the chance to look in places that could’ve had any answers for him. He might’ve kept pawing around the different resources at any of the libraries he’s visited before and found them in a book that, no doubt (especially not considering his luck or lack thereof), would’ve been the last place that Keith possibly expected. He might’ve looked harder for dictionaries of symbols and symbolism that were further off the beaten path — international ones, especially non-Western ones, or historical ones, or _anything_ different…

If that had ever worked out… If any of that searching had amounted to anything, borne more fruit than time wasted and headaches and a gaping, empty feeling in Keith’s chest like he’s missing something and has no idea what it is or where to find it… If he’d only applied himself to the search with more dedication than he did, then maybe Keith wouldn’t need to keep reminding himself how to breathe because he’d _know_ what Kolivan’s going to say. He’d _know_ what’s going on behind Kolivan’s pursed lips and narrowed eyes. Even if Keith had only found a _hint_ of what they’re dealing with, the barest trace of any of those symbols or what they might mean, then maybe his heartbeat wouldn’t keep fading in and out on him, going almost-normally every few seconds before its pace picks up again and races until he can’t feel it anymore like his heart has straight-up disappeared, until his fingertips tingle like they might start going numb—

Rufus nuzzles at Keith’s leg and thankfully, this shakes him out of his own thoughts. Sadly, though, Rufus doesn’t have any answers or a helpful translation of what’s going on in Kolivan’s head. Swallowing thickly, Keith nods down at the little guy but doesn’t let go of hugging himself. He lets his eyes slip closed and it helps him control his breathing. Or anyway, he doesn’t feel like he’s shaking so obviously that Kolivan’s going to point it out at any moment. When he clears his throat and reclaims Keith’s attention, he says nothing about whether or not his advisee looks like he’s going to throw up on his floor.

“How much do you know about the Blade of Marmora?” Kolivan says, so calm that it makes Keith’s stomach lurch.

“The rebel group?” Keith cringes at how he sounds, even asking that. “Right, yeah, like there’s any other Blade of Marmora—”

“You are stressed. Breathe deeply, reflect for a moment, then answer.” Tapping at the marking on the hilt, Kolivan clarifies, “I ask because your knife carries their old symbol. Or their old calling card, depending on which sources you ask. Zarkon, for instance, considers them terrorists on such a level that he does not permit us to show students this symbol when teaching them about the Marmora.”

“Okay, well, whatever about them’s come up with you or Antok, I’ll probably remember it…” Keith sighs and follows Kolivan’s advice before letting himself tack on, “I’ve read a little about the Blades on my own? Enough to know my parents _couldn’t_ have had anything to do with them, I mean? Come on, it’s not as if my Mom and Dad were—”

“ _Keith_ ,” Kolivan cuts in, not quite snapping but narrowing his eyes in a way that makes Keith choke down a shiver and pray his advisor couldn’t tell. “Do you seek _knowledge_ about this knife? Or are you looking for simple answers that fit into your preconceived notions and relate only what you _want_ to hear?”

“I don’t _want_ to hear _anything_ in particular! I barely know enough to _have_ any ideas like that! I just…” Keith only means to sigh, not let his throat make any damp, twisting, pathetic noises. It nearly sounds like whimpering. At least Kolivan doesn’t point this out. Sure, he keeps watching as if he expects Keith to explode at any second, and to do it literally, as if he’s a human pipe bomb. But Kolivan isn’t saying so, and that counts for something, even if Keith can’t tell for certain what that something is.

Slouching against the cushions again, Keith offers, “It just doesn’t make any _sense_ to me, okay? My Mom and Dad were… They scraped by but not always well. He dropped out of community college and she barely finished. I only know she went to Northwestern because her aunt told me so. She said they were both part-Korean and _her_ family name was Kang? But anyone else I’ve ever found named _Kogane_ has been Japanese? Except my Mom never said anything about that, and the aunt of hers who took me in was full Korean, like? I just…”

He forces himself not to let his shoulder hunch as he says, “How would they get their hands on a _luxite_ blade? How could they _possibly_ have anything to do with the Blade of Marmora? Neither of them was even _Galra_ —”

“Galran and Korean ancestry are not mutually exclusive,” Kolivan points out. “Between your knife and your middle name, I would suppose that one of them must have been partly of Galran descent. Most likely your mother.”

“My _middle name_?” Keith splutters. He clamps his fingers down on his elbow so he won’t bang his head against the wall. He almost asks how Kolivan even knows that — but oh right, it’s on his student records and Kolivan has access to those, as his advisor. But that still leaves Keith with the question, “How can you look at a name like _Sarkance_ and think it sounds like _anything_ but… I don’t know? Something my parents made up while they were _drunk_?”

The deep breath Kolivan helps himself to sounds an awful lot like he’s reminding himself why he doesn’t want to yell at Keith. Maybe he’s reminding himself that the walls keep conversations muffled and prevent most attempts at eavesdropping, but likely wouldn’t do enough to conceal the sound Kolivan shouting at his advisee. Whichever it is, Kolivan heaves a sigh as he makes himself look back at Keith.

“The House of Sarkance was among the priestly and scholarly class in old Galran society,” he explains. Every word aches with how hard he’s working to stay calm, and he taps the haloed flame harder than necessary. “This is their symbol.” He taps at the crescent moon. “This is the personal insignia of the blade’s original maker.”

“Do you know who belongs to that one?”

“I do, indeed.” But Kolivan doesn’t share that information. Instead, he taps on the ouroboros. “This is the personal marking of your knife’s original owner. I don’t recognize this one off-hand, but there are ways of finding out which of your ancestors it was.”

“But I’m _not_ Galra!” As soon as he spits it out, Keith hates how petulant he sounds and tries to cover it up, “Like, okay, I have this knife and that middle name, but why wouldn’t my Mom ever _tell me_ that? And I got told I _argue_ like a Galra recently but I thought that was just Zarkon’s son having _daddy issues_ , right? How can I argue like a Galra when I have _no idea_ what that even _means_ —”

“According to Thace, you have integrated more lessons from Galran debate and philosophy into your personal style, but…” Kolivan sighs and rolls his eyes. “Considering Lotor and his father, your interpretation is likely the more accurate one.”

“Maybe someone from my Mom’s family stole the knife from someone else—”

“Possible but unlikely, given your middle name—”

“Where else would it have come from? They could’ve taken the name, too!”

Sheathing the blade again, Kolivan huffs. “How much do you want help with this, Keith? Enough to reconsider your stance on whether or not it is possible for you to be Galra? Or for your mother to have inherited this knife, rather than stealing it?”

It takes him a moment, but Keith nods. “Right. Wherever the knife came from, whatever it all means, it doesn’t change who I am.”

“No, it does not.” But instead of tacking on something more pleasant, Kolivan asks, “Do you want this knowledge enough to go to your appointment this afternoon? To _cooperate_ with the counselor and answer their questions _honestly_?”

“ _Fine_ , yes, I’ll go already.” Keith knocks his head against the back of the sofa. It fixes nothing and doesn’t make him feel any better, but it vents _some_ of the steam that’s building up inside of him, he guesses. “So, what _does_ the knife mean?”

Kolivan tuts. “Attend your appointment first. _Then_ , we will discuss your knife.”

Keith groans, “Are you seriously pulling a Scheherazade on me? Like, _seriously_?”

“Technically no. I am offering you knowledge, assistance, and a discussion in which you have an interest. All I ask in exchange is that you start taking better care of yourself.” Chuckling, Kolivan hands back the knife. “You convinced me to take you on as an advisee despite my resistance. After that, how difficult can a counseling session be?”

“I’d rather fight a dragon with my bare hands,” Keith mutters.

“Unfortunately, I am fresh out of dragons at this time.” Before Keith can come up with a retort of his own, something eager gleams in Kolivan’s eyes. “I do, however, have some background reading on the Marmora that you might enjoy. If such a thing would appeal to you.”

*** * ***

Asking if Keith wants that extra reading must’ve been a formality, but Keith’s okay with that. He’s similarly okay with giving Rufus a goodbye scritch behind the ears and following Kolivan down the hall. Much as he’d like to come back for the little guy, Keith’s gonna need to have lunch when he and Kolivan are done with this misadventure. Eating with Rufus around is always slightly difficult, and today, Keith might not have himself together enough to manage it.

As Kolivan knocks on Antok’s door, Keith tries not to slouch too much. As he trails in after Kolivan, Keith isn’t sure he’s managing that. Then again, he’s easily the shortest person in the room. Even though Antok and his TA are seated at Antok’s desk, Keith can’t shake the awareness of how long Regris’s legs are and how Antok is the tallest of the four of them. If Keith were standing up as straight as he possibly can, he still might not manage to feel like he isn’t stuck in some petulant, post-teenage slouch because Kolivan, Regris, and Antok always seem to tower over him.

At least there’s consolation in the fact that Antok towers over everybody, even when he’s sitting down. The word best suited to Kolivan’s husband is _big_ and has been ever since Keith first met him. From his expansive, linebacker’s shoulders to his deep-set brown eyes, from the obvious muscles lurking beneath the softness of his chest, his arms, and his stomach to the grin straining at his round, olive-skinned face — everything about Antok refuses to shrink itself for anybody else’s comfort.

“Hey, babe,” he says to Kolivan, putting his chin in his palm. “What can I do you for?”

“We have been married for twenty years, _migadye_ ,” Kolivan tells him, shaking his head as he heads for Antok’s bookshelves. “You never paid me for intimate pleasures before you took me as a husband. You do not need to start doing so now.”

_Is this what it feels like to watch your parents flirt?_ — Keith knows better than to ask this aloud where Antok and Kolivan can hear him. Still, Keith flushes pink and adjusts his backpack’s straps as they lean in toward each other and trade a brief, tender kiss.

Rolling his eyes, he furrows his brow over at Regris, who shrugs back. Which is probably fair enough, Keith guesses. If nothing else, Keith isn’t asking anything out loud. It isn’t as though Regris can read Keith’s mind just because he’s intelligent and decent-looking, with his sharp jawline and his wavy, blue-and-black ponytail. His glasses have black plastic frames, neither fully squared nor fully circular. They help him see, they vaguely remind Keith of Truman Capote, and they fit Regris’s face so well that Keith had Regris keep them on when they had sex — but they don’t give him any psychic powers, as far as Keith can tell.

Still, Regris might make this easier if he had anything to say about Kolivan and Antok. Even saying that he feels awkward when they get so affectionate with each other in front of their students. That would be more than enough for Keith, right now.

Aside from being so _odd_ for the two of them, a moment like this kiss feels so sweet and intimate that Keith probably shouldn’t be here, witnessing it. He shouldn’t be hearing Kolivan call Antok that Galran endearment of choice, etymologically related to _“migadi,”_ explicitly romantic but carrying similar overtones of, _“a partner in arms, a person you choose to be with before all others, a lover whose loyalty and love can withstand the worst trials.”_

Maybe Keith shouldn’t feel so _cold_ and _itchy_ while he’s watching other people be so in love. Maybe this kind of reaction means there’s something wrong with him after all. Maybe he _should_ take this afternoon’s counseling session seriously for more reasons than because Kolivan _told him to_ —

“Do you have any spare copies of your first book on the Blades, my love?” Kolivan says, squeezing Antok’s shoulder and shaking Keith out of his own head. “Ideally, a copy that you wouldn’t mind letting Keith have indefinitely?”

Antok chuckles, but joins his husband by the bookshelves. “If you want to give him a birthday present, why not let _Keith_ choose it?”

“He _did_ choose it, after a fashion. But it also isn’t a birthday present…”

Kolivan lowers too much for Keith to want to strain himself on eavesdropping. Instead, he sighs and sets his backpack on the floor. Slumping against the wall, Keith glances over at Regris instead of at their advisors. Perplexingly, Regris fires back an easy smile. Could be that he wants to give things another try between them. But maybe he’s just being friendly and Keith’s having more trouble with reading social situations than usual.

“It’s your birthday?” he says, turning in his chair to face Keith.

Keith shrugs. “Last Monday.”

“Oh, well. Did you have a nice one, then?”

Nodding, Keith supposes that he had a nice day of turning twenty-four. As nice as his birthday ever is. “Got dinner with Shay, Allura, and this guy… Haven’t seen him for a while until recently? Went back to his place for tea, slept over…”

“Oooh, sounds _very_ nice.”

“Eh, I mean? It wasn’t _not_ nice, but we made it kinda complicated for each other? But things have been okay since then, I guess.”

Swishing his ponytail, Regris smirks. “Well, if it doesn’t work out between you, may I ask him what the secret is for getting you to call back?”

“Sure, if you want.” Keith shrugs, but makes himself give Regris a smile. “If it falls apart with Shiro, I’ll keep you in mind.”

“ _Keith_ ,” Kolivan pipes up without looking away from the bookshelf. “If you are going to ignore my advice about intra-departmental romantic entanglements, please don’t be so obvious about it. At least wait until we are not in the same room.”

Adorable as Regris looks, wide-eyed with a dark pink blush, he doesn’t stop Keith from letting out a deep, heavy, _“Ugh.”_

“I was telling Regris about being in a romantic something-or-other with _Shiro_ ,” he grouses. “Who doesn’t even _go here_ and who I told you about earlier, too. And okay, I get that you’re joking? But we are literally standing in your _husband’s_ office. Y’know, the guy you _married_. Last I checked, he isn’t exactly a professor of veterinary medicine. Antok, did you switch departments or what?”

“Give him a break,” Regris says around a snicker. “Perhaps this game is, ‘Do as Kolivan says, not as Kolivan does’?”

Smiling, Antok flicks his husband’s braid. “Can’t deny they have a point, babe.”

“Yes, well…” Kolivan grumbles and eases a paperback book out of Antok’s hand. Despite rolling his eyes, he leans up to peck Antok’s cheek. “We will continue our other discussion at home later, _migadye_. Please do not let Keith linger for too long after class?”

“Yes, dear,” Antok sighs indulgently. “Message received. I promise I won’t let our son be late.”

With a bemused frown, Regris looks to Keith. Probably, he wants an explanation? But Keith couldn’t give him one even if Kolivan weren’t shepherding him out the door so quickly that Keith almost forgets his backpack.

What’s going on doesn’t get much clearer, out in the hallway. Kolivan hands over the book — _Knowledge Or Death: Resistance and Rebellion in the Blade of Marmora_ — and explains that it ought to offer Keith something more intellectually savory than the standard, cursory introduction. He asks if Keith thinks he can get the book read by next Monday, or might he want a bit more time. Adding this to Keith’s schedule for the week sounds about perfect, and Antok’s scholarship is more accessible and easier to read than most academic writing — or anyway, that’s been true of his stuff that Keith’s read so far. Getting _Knowledge or Death_ finished by Monday shouldn’t be a problem.

“It’ll be something other than coursework, so Allura should support it,” he explains, combing his free hand back through his hair. “Shiro’s usually cool about… Y’know? Just sitting together. Me, reading. Him, working with his guitar.”

Or holding Keith and nuzzling at his hair while he reads, without actively attempting to distract him. Which might be safe enough to share, with the present company. Kolivan can probably figure out from the essay that Shiro is the person who Keith, “lost” before he left Chicago, and Kolivan might encourage this romantic entanglement. For one thing, Shiro makes Keith happy and he’s sober now. If nothing else, it’s not an intra-departmental affair.

Still, though, they have bigger questions. Like the one that makes Keith wrinkle his nose at his advisor.

“Since when am I your son?” he says. “Not that I’m _opposed_ , but? Pretty sure I don’t remember getting _adopted_?”

Kolivan huffs. “Pay Antok no mind on this count. He finds such jests are more amusing than the rest of us do.” Patting Keith on the shoulder, he says, “Go eat your lunch before class starts. And try not to be late to your appointment.”

*** * ***

_[12:45 PM]: How did it go with Kolivan?_

_[1:11 PM]: Well, I’ve made two of the most important people in my life think I’m on a self-destruct course_  
_[1:15 PM]: Meaning him and you, Princess_

_[1:16 PM]: Yes, I figured_  
_[1:16 PM]: I wasn’t sure what I wanted to say about that_

_[1:17 PM]: Oh. Yeah, that’s fair_  
_[1:18 PM]: Well, aside from that, it went fine_  
_[1:18 PM]: We talked about my knife a little_

_[1:19 PM]: I assume that you brought it up?_

_[1:19 PM]: Yeah_  
_[1:20 PM]: I think he was mostly indulging me_  
_[1:21 PM]: Letting me ask because the rest of the talk was difficult_  
_[1:22 PM]: Antok called me their son and Kolivan compared me to an old friend of his who died_  
_[1:23 PM]: It’s been a day, you know?_

_[1:25 PM]: I’m sorry, unelinde ❤️_  
_[1:27 PM]: What can I do?_  
_[1:29 PM]: And where are you?_

_[1:30 PM]: Outside Antok’s classroom_  
_[1:30 PM]: Waiting for the other class to get out_  
_[1:31 PM]: But being yourself and being here is enough_  
_[1:38 PM]: Also Kolivan scheduled an appointment at health services for me_

_[1:40 PM]: Do you plan on going to it? ❤️_

_[1:41 PM]: Yeah_  
_[1:41 PM]: If nothing else, he’s holding some of what he knows about my knife over my head_  
_[1:43 PM]: Like “go and behave yourself and we’ll talk about it more”_  
_[1:53 PM]: Do you have dinner plans, Princess?_  
_[1:54 PM]: And if no, do you want to grab something with me, Shiro, and Pidge?_

_[1:55 PM]: I would love to ❤️_

_[1:55 PM]: Great_  
_[1:56 PM]: I don’t know when he gets off work, so_  
_[1:56 PM]: Meet me at health services and we’ll go from there?_

_[1:57 PM]: I’ll be there_

_[1:57 PM]: Thanks, Princess_  
_[2:01 PM]: Love you_

*** * ***

_[1:12 PM]: Today sucks, tell me something fun?_

_[1:13 PM]: I have something special for you?_

_[1:15 PM]: Is it a kiss?_  
_[1:15 PM]: Another nap on your chest?_  
_[1:15 PM]: Stop me if I get it_  
_[1:16 PM]: Or you could just tell me_

_[1:17 PM]: It’s a book_  
_[1:18 PM]: But you can have all the kisses and naps you like when I get off my shift ❤️_

_[1:25 PM]: I would like to drown in your mouth if at all possible_

_[1:26 PM]: are you okay? ❤️_

_[1:26 PM]: Just had a meeting with Kolivan_  
_[1:27 PM]: I’m fucking tired_  
_[1:27 PM]: I want to pause existence and kiss you until_  
_[1:28 PM]: I don’t know, until I don’t feel so fucking tired anymore?_  
_[1:29 PM]: But I still have Antok’s class and an appointment at health services later_

_[1:30 PM]: What’s wrong? ❤️_

_[1:32 PM]: I don’t think I have a helpful answer to that question?_

_[1:33 PM]: Then tell me whatever comes to mind ❤️_

_[1:33 PM]: I don’t want to go to this_  
_[1:34 PM]: Because it’s with one of the counselors_  
_[1:34 PM]: But Kolivan scheduled it for me_  
_[1:35 PM]: Because he’s worried about me and knew I wouldn’t schedule it myself_  
_[1:36 PM]: But if I go and play nicely, Kolivan has some knowledge that I want about where my knife came from_  
_[1:37 PM]: Also his husband may or may not want to adopt me?_

_[1:38 PM]: Where is health services?_

_[1:39 PM]: McKenney House, behind the library and kitty-corner from the student center_  
_[1:39 PM]: It’s a refurbished older house_  
_[1:40 PM]: They have a sign out front, you can’t miss it_

_[1:41 PM]: Well, I can’t really give you a drawing of Red from work_  
_[1:42 PM]: would a selfie be okay instead?_

_[1:42 PM]: Always, yes_

_[1:44 PM]: (Attached: one image)_

_[1:45 PM]: I hate that your face looks so good but isn’t here for me to kiss_

_[1:46 PM]: C’est la vie, unfortunately ❤️_

_[1:47 PM]: What are you doing for dinner tonight?_

_[1:47 PM]: Meeting Pidge for it_  
_[1:48 PM]: Hunk, Lance, and Matt have late shifts at work_  
_[1:48 PM]: We haven’t picked where we’re going_  
_[1:49 PM]: But if you want to come, I’d love to have you there ❤️_  
_[1:49 PM]: She probably would too_

_[1:50 PM]: I want to come_  
_[1:51 PM]: Can I invite Allura too?_  
_[1:51 PM]: She and Pidge kinda met each other this morning_

_[1:52 PM]: Sure. The more, the merrier_

_[1:57 PM]: Okay, Allura’s in_  
_[1:58 PM]: She’s going to meet me at health services_

_[1:58 PM]: Okay. Take care of yourself til then, Keith ❤️_  
_[1:58 PM]: I love you_

_[1:59 PM]: I love you too_  
_[2:00 PM]: I hate most of today and would throw it into the sun if I could_  
_[2:01 PM]: But I love you_  
_[2:02 PM]: I have to pay attention to class now but_  
_[2:02 PM]: I’ll see you later ❤️_

*** * ***

Midway through Antok’s class, Keith stops counting how many times he’s taken his hair down, put it back up, and tried to pull the ponytail tighter this time. Putting his phone in his backpack was a good idea, since it keeps him from sighing wistfully at Shiro’s selfie. His boss must really like him, to let Shiro get away with texting Keith at work, never mind taking pics of himself while he’s blatantly on the job. Against the bookshelf backdrop, today’s t-shirt doesn’t immediately make any sense to Keith — it’s sky blue with a cartoon of a vaguely anthropomorphic rainbow wearing Buddy Holly glasses and perusing a book — but it’s so perfectly fitted to Shiro’s torso and the not-quite-cap sleeves showcase his arms so well that Keith can’t help feeling teased.

While the class carries on, Keith lets himself think that he feels fine. That catches up to him, though, when Antok dismisses them. For several moments, Keith _knows_ that he needs to get up and go, and literally nothing tries to stop him. Even so, actually making that happen feels so hard that it could kill him. Shay nudges at Keith’s shoulder and asks if he’s doing okay, but she wouldn’t have cause for that if he weren’t spacing out, staring at the note that the class before them left on the whiteboard. He has time to get to McKenney House and he won’t need all of it. Scheduling this appointment for 4:30 was probably Kolivan’s version of doing Keith a kindness, since he doesn’t need to have his head on straight immediately after class.

Still, it’s probably not a good sign that Keith doesn’t drag himself to his feet until Antok reminds him to get going.

In all likelihood, it’s got to be a _worse_ sign that Keith rolls his eyes as he closes in on health services and sees that Shiro’s there already and waiting for him. He should be happy about this, shouldn’t he? Keith should be glad to see Shiro with a messenger bag’s strap across his chest, holding two cups of probably-coffee and leaning against the stone wall that goes around the little hill McKenney House sits on. He should be able to smile when Shiro calls out to him, and when he hands over a cup with confirmation that he got Keith’s drink blacker than the pits of Hell, and when he leans down for a quick, tender kiss.

Instead, Keith can’t stop himself from asking, “Did Allura put you up to this?”

Shiro knots his brow. “We’ve only texted a little about dinner ideas? Why would she put me up to anything?”

“To make sure I actually went?” Keith says, letting his shoulders droop. “To keep me from bailing like I still kinda want to?”

“I told my boss that someone I love needed some moral support. He told me to take off early and come be with you.” Pushing some loose fringe off Keith’s face, Shiro tells him, “I wasn’t specific or anything? If that helps any?”

“Oh my _God_ ,” Keith groans. “I’m sorry, you just…” Huffing, he leans further into Shiro’s hand and closes his eyes. “All you wanted to do was be here for me and I completely… I came in and accused you and Allura of, I don’t know, _conspiring_?”

“It’s okay, Keith. This kind of thing can be rough.” He kisses Keith’s forehead and brushes his thumb along Keith’s cheek. “You ready?”

Keith shakes his head. “Now or never, though, right?”

As he lets Shiro hug him around the shoulders and lead them in, Keith wishes that the promise of, _“You’ve got this”_ reassured him half as much as Shiro wants it to. Instead, the beige walls of the waiting room make Keith want to bolt. When Shiro takes his backpack for him and sits down by the grimy-looking window, Keith only doesn’t make a break for it because Shiro came all the way over here for Keith’s sake and, on top of that, Keith loves him. No matter how pointless this whole mess seems and no matter how little Keith wants to be here, he can’t very well claim to love Shiro if he pulls stunts like making Shiro chase him down to drag him back here.

Still, while he waits in line to check in, Keith can’t shake off the itchy, nauseated feeling like nothing good can possibly come out of being here. Old magazines and informational pamphlets lie scattered around a coffee table and several smaller tables as if they’re in a real doctor’s office. Other students sit kicked back and coughing, or hunched over clipboards with what looks like paperwork, or curled up in their chairs with their chins on their knees. Once he’s jotted down his name, his student number, his scheduled appointment time, and his check-in time on a list, it should be good enough. At the very least, it should definitely get Keith out of showing the receptionist see his student ID and his driver’s license.

Except it doesn’t, because it’s protocol to make sure Keith is who he claims. As if anyone would ever want to impersonate Keith Sarkance Kogane, whether they’re in their hypothetical right mind or not. Worse, when she gives the card back, she hands Keith his own clipboard full of paperwork. She apologizes for not having any spare pens right now, and okay, it’s not her fault that students probably steal them, but God, Keith doesn’t need this right now. Skimming through the stapled pages, his eyes start glazing over and the mental static comes back, louder than it was in Kolivan’s office.

Slouching against Shiro’s side is the only thing that makes the noise calm down. He curls an arm around Keith’s shoulders again and sighs like he expected Keith to be in a bad mood over this. Then again, it wouldn’t be difficult to predict that.

“This is fucking stupid,” Keith mutters. “Do you have a writing utensil? I don’t feel like digging in my backpack.”

“Paperwork is usually tedious,” Shiro acquiesces and pulls a pen out of his hoodie’s pocket. “But it’s important.”

“I can’t even _answer_ the family medical history questions…” Grumbling, Keith makes himself start filling things out. Here’s his name, here’s his birthday, here’s his sex and his gender identity and whether or not he’s been sexually active in the past six months. “The Hell am I supposed to tell them? ‘Yeah, both of my blood parents suffer from chronic _in absentia_ disease and an apparently fatal allergy to being around their son. Can’t say that I blame them, either’?”

For a moment, Shiro rubs at Keith’s arm and noses at his hair in silence. Finally, though, he finds an explanation that he likes: “Questions about your family history are less important than the questions specifically about you, most of the time. When they help with mental health stuff, it’s usually because some diagnoses can run in families but might present differently?”

Lowering his voice so only Keith can hear him, Shiro adds, “I know this won’t fix anything, and I don’t expect it to change how you feel? But it’s your parents’ loss, if they _really_ don’t want to be in your life. You’re one of the most amazing people I’ve ever met, and if they wouldn’t appreciate that, then they don’t deserve you in the first place.”

“You’re a huge nerd,” Keith whispers, squeezing Shiro’s knee by way of saying that he likes it when Shiro’s a nerd.

A few more questions later, though, Keith whines and drops his head onto Shiro’s shoulder.

“‘Have you ever deliberately harmed yourself,’” he reads off the form, sneering like that’s really going to make this paperwork stop bothering him. “Is it too much to answer these questions like, ‘No, but thanks _sooooo_ very much for asking. Way to make me feel like you guys really care and are totally paying attention to detail. Also, how many students do you service daily, hmm’?”

“Well, you _can_ put that down?” Shiro supposes. “The real question here is _should_ you do that, and personally? I wouldn’t advise it. Acting flippant like that used to make Dr. Hall tell Ryou she thought I wasn’t being honest with her—”

“Which you _weren’t_.”

“Which I _regret_ now, but…” A deep breath. He squeezes at Keith’s shoulder and cuddles him as close as the chairs will currently allow. Gingerly, Shiro says, “The other thing here is? ‘No’ might not be entirely accurate, in your case?”

Scribbling in answers for other, more straightforward questions, Keith lets himself have an, _“Ugh.”_ When Shiro asks for a translation, Keith shrugs.

“I don’t cut myself,” he says. “I don’t burn myself or put cigarettes out on my own arms. Not that I can _afford_ cigarettes, but if I could, I wouldn’t bother wasting them like that. I don’t bite myself or drink battery acid or… I don’t know? Anything else?”

“Beating your head against the wall,” Shiro says, and it _almost_ sounds like he might be rolling his eyes. “Picking your scabs so they won’t heal properly. Digging your nails into your palm so hard, you think you might break the skin. Pulling your hair like you want to rip it out. Punching walls. Punching doors. Punching jukeboxes—”

“That was _one time_ ,” Keith protests, “and it was _only_ over Lynyrd Skynyrd. Also, I was drunk and you _know_ it.”

Still, Shiro’s probably trying to help. Whatever he thinks he’s getting out of this, he doesn’t deserve for Keith to take his head off over it. Taking a few deep breaths doesn’t settle anything racketing around Keith’s chest, but it gets him through muttering an apology.

“Anyway,” he says, “I did more damage to myself than the jukebox.”

“Yeah, exactly,” Shiro sighs. “And you don’t seem to _care_ about that, which is sorta my point.”

“I’m filling it in with, ‘I don’t know,’” Keith tells him. “Then we’re both kinda right.”

Which should totally merit a cheeky response, if anyone asks Keith. Or maybe Shiro could tug on his ponytail and tell him to be nice, because the counselor’s probably had a really long day and it’s not their fault that Keith’s Mom and Dad left him, or that he had some exceptionally shitty experiences with his foster families, or any of it. Instead, Shiro goes quiet and so still, Keith wonders if he didn’t fall asleep. He didn’t, but he’s so spaced out that, when Keith’s done with the paperwork, he has to nudge Shiro to let him go. He can’t turn in his paperwork if he’s cuddling, after all.

When Keith settles back against his side, Shiro takes a deep breath and says, “Can I offer a perspective that you might not want to hear?”

Keith shrugs. “The other two most important people in my life have already done that today. Go on. Make it three for three.”

The sigh Shiro heaves suggests that this might not have been the right answer. At least he picks up where they left off with hugging Keith, squeezing at his shoulder and rubbing at his arm. He takes a long moment to think, long enough that Keith wonders if Shiro will say anything before he gets called back. Under the circumstances, though, Keith probably can’t begrudge him that — not least since none of this situation is remotely Shiro’s fault.

Finally, Shiro tells him, “I feel like you’re being so resistant to this for a lot of the reasons why you’re here in the first place.”

Keith closes his eyes instead of rolling them and puts his head back on Shiro’s shoulder. “I’m here because Kolivan _told me_ to come.”

“Yes, but _why_ did he think you needed this appointment?”

“Because he’s concerned about my well-being? Thinks I’m giving up on myself or putting too much into my work or _something_ …” Huffing, Keith really wishes that it were socially acceptable to sit in Shiro’s lap right now. “He was all, ‘Taking the free orientation week STI test and keeping condoms in your wallet is one of the only things you’ve done lately that _doesn’t_ look like you’re some self-destructing loose cannon.’ Then his husband called me their son and Kolivan denied it, like most advisors actually have to put up with this, which? I’m pretty sure they _don’t_ …”

“What about Allura?” Shiro prods, gently but with an impatient edge to his voice. “What did she have to say?”

“She asked if I feel worthless. If I can even tell when I need help anymore.”

“Can you?”

“I don’t _know_ , okay?” Keith nuzzles at Shiro, but it’s mostly a side-effect of trying to get himself more comfortable. “Right now, I just wanna blow off this appointment and go make out with you ’til this all goes away. Kolivan already told me it doesn’t work like that, but…”

“He’s right about that. Which isn’t _fun_ , but…” With a sigh, Shiro leans his cheek against Keith’s head. “I love you, Keith, and there’s not a lot I wouldn’t do for you. But I’m not going to pretend that I’m not worried about you—”

“What am I even _doing_ to make you guys _feel_ like that—”

“Random crying jags,” Shiro tells him, sounding like he could use a five-year nap. “They hit you out of nowhere and you can’t explain them. You’re having trouble sleeping. You’ve been isolating yourself. You’re exhausted and blaming yourself for things that aren’t your fault. In the essay, do you have any idea how many times you tried to say that Maurice’s actions were _your_ fault? Because it came up more than a bit—”

Shaking his head, Keith whines. Not that Shiro doesn’t have some kind of point, but can they not, right now?

“I _did_ say that you might not want to hear this,” Shiro points out. As firm as he’s forcing his voice to be, he’s nothing but soft about kissing the top of Keith’s head. “This session is going to suck, okay? Whatever comes next after this one, it is probably going to suck. Opening up like they’ll likely want from you is hard, especially when you’ve kept so much locked up for so long. But counseling and therapy _can_ help, if you let them, and I hope that you do? Because I _am_ worried for you…”

Nuzzling at Keith’s hair, Shiro sighs. His voice is damp and cracking as he bites out, “I don’t want to _lose you_ again.”

Keith swallows thickly, but it doesn’t shake off the chill that drops into his stomach. A few deep breaths do nothing to make him feel less like he has someone holding his head underwater, but splaying his fingers over Shiro’s thigh makes his head spin slightly less. Sighing from the pit of his chest, Keith pulls his head up and turns to face Shiro. He forces himself to look Shiro in the eye, and Shiro leans down toward him to make that easier.

“I don’t want to kill myself, Kashi,” Keith promises.

“That’s reassuring, but…” Nudging at Keith’s forehead, Shiro tells him, “Please take this seriously? No matter how much it sucks. No matter how much you hate it. No matter how much you wish we were making out instead. Just… Take it seriously, Keith? _Please_?”

“I can’t promise anything, but…” Keith butts his forehead into Shiro’s. “I’ll work on it, okay?”

“That’s good enough, Keith.” A quick peck at the corner of Keith’s mouth, then Shiro says, “I love you.”

And there’s so much that Keith wants to say to that. So many thoughts swirling around in his head and melting into each other. So many things that he remembers writing down after he left Chicago, remembers storing up in case he and Shiro ever found each other again so Keith could prove that he was doing just fine on his own, or demand to know how Shiro could disappear right after asking Keith if they could _have a Talk_ when he got home from work, or throw it in Shiro’s face that it didn’t matter that he’d never loved Keith in the way Keith loved him, because he didn’t need Shiro and he’d moved on and Keith didn’t even want him anymore — regardless of how much Keith would’ve had to lie about that. So many things he can’t call up now, not when they’re all trying to get his attention at once and half of them refuse to come to him in _words_ …

So many things that don’t matter anymore, not with Shiro sitting here with him, nudging Keith’s hair off of his face and looking at him like he truly believes in Keith. Everything that Keith’s ever screamed and cried at an imaginary Shiro in the past few years — it crumbles into dust now, held up against the _real_ Shiro. Keith can barely recall what he was so angry about, only that he _was_ angry, as he looks up at the soft, dewy smile that he always wanted to believe was _his_ smile from Shiro and _his alone_ , something special that nobody else got to see, no matter how much Shiro cared about them. Which might not even be that wrong, for all that thought makes Keith close his eyes and rub their foreheads together again because after all this hoping and all this time, he might not deserve to have that wish come true…

So much unsaid and left boiling inside of Keith by the time someone calls his name.

“You can read whatever’s in my backpack if you’re bored,” he says. “Thanks for coming with me, Kashi.”

“Any time, baby.” Still smiling, Shiro gives him a good luck kiss. “Remember: I love you, and you’ve got this.”

*** * ***

After what feels like far too long in the counselor’s office, Keith ambles back toward the waiting room with a handful of pamphlets and a feeling like he’s had his insides scooped out like ice cream. As he waits for the receptionist, waits to schedule another appointment for this same time next week, his phone says that it’s barely been an hour since he first went back. Which is nice in theory, Keith supposes, flicking through the little brightly, off-pastel colored tracts about depression this, anxiety that, the different options for mental, emotional, and behavioral healthcare that don’t require health insurance, and something called complex post-traumatic stress disorder, which sounds like a redundant name to Keith, because isn’t all PTSD complex and often difficult to manage? Isn’t that how this shit works?

Either way, none of this answers for the fact that Keith feels empty at the same time as he feels full to bursting with _he doesn’t even know what_. None of it clears up the way that he doesn’t have the energy to manage a polite smile for the receptionist, and guilt kicks him in the chest over this because it isn’t her fault that he’s a disaster area and she’s probably had a long, rough day, herself. Combing his fingers back through the hair that refuses to get scooped into his ponytail, Keith can’t shake off this sensation that everything he’s had removed in the past hour has been spilled out on an examination table or put under a high-tech microscope or, worst of all possible options, trotted out in an operating theatre for a whole horde of medical students to watch and speculate on, while Keith himself probably doesn’t have the first clue what’s going on.

He _does_ have the first clue what he’s going to say to Shiro. But as he turns toward him, Keith can’t quite slump back into his seat, much less get out the words, _“That sucked, can we go kiss it better until dinner?”_ Mostly because Kolivan is occupying his former seat, and has apparently gotten so absorbed in chatting with Shiro that Keith has to clear his throat to make either of them notice him.

“Making sure I actually went?” Keith asks with a sigh.

“I thought that I might come offer you moral support and reassurance,” Kolivan replies far too easily, as if all the advisors on campus do things like this all the time. As if he, himself, would do this for any other advisee, in some version of reality where he still regularly takes them on. Shrugging, he adds, “Little did I know that you had already reached out to someone. Or that he already knew who I am.”

“I mean, like I said? Keith speaks very highly of you…” How Shiro can keep it so together while blushing strawberry red, Keith doesn’t understand. But right now, he doesn’t need to get it. “And I don’t imagine there are too many people around campus with waist-length braids.”

“There aren’t,” Kolivan agrees.

“Oh _God_ ,” Keith groans. “What were you talking about?”

There are so many possibilities, but two stand out as the likeliest. On one hand, they could have been comparing notes on Keith, just like Shiro and Allura might be doing now that they have each other’s numbers and have apparently decided to be friends. They might’ve been trading all kinds of observations about how he’s been acting lately, and how some of his behaviors might or might not have changed since Shiro knew them in Chicago, and how they’re concerned and he doesn’t make it easy for them because he often won’t play nicely with letting people care about him.

On the other, though, Kolivan could have been grilling Shiro as to his _intentions_ with Keith and warning Shiro about what might befall him if he ever hurts Keith — in other words, acting like the dad that Antok thinks his husband is as far as Kolivan’s advisee is concerned.

Keith isn’t sure which of those options is the worse one.

He _is_ , however, certain that Shiro has a good point in mentioning that they should probably clear out and create more space for the people who still have appointments. Keith puts up a token fuss when Shiro takes his backpack for him, but outside, when Keith sits down on the wall, the biggest problem he can find is that his coffee’s gotten lukewarm. That’s if he’s being polite about it, too, but at least Shiro went to Java Hut, so the coffee doesn’t taste _too_ questionable. As Keith takes a long drink of it, Kolivan and Shiro come around to lean against the wall instead of perching on it like Keith.

Gently brushing the back of his hand along Keith’s side, Shiro tells him, “Anyway? We were just talking. I asked if he was who I thought he was. He assumed that I was a probably fan of his work or a prospective grad student—” He snickers when Keith asks if Aunt Satomi still wishes he were more of a prospective grad student, less of a punk rock star. “That, she does. But if _you’re_ looking at going? Then she’ll have two vicarious nephews who went to grad school, and one actual nephew who has his own PhD, so…”

Keith doesn’t know what to say to that, so he nudges Shiro’s white fringe behind his ear and leans down to kiss his forehead. It makes a bright pink blush rise on Shiro’s cheeks, and he lets out an, _“aw, shucks”_ kind of giggle as Keith keeps playing with his hair. Holy shit, Shiro has no right to be so adorable when he’s so tall, so broad-shouldered, and easily could’ve gotten the scar on his face from a fight and not from rock-climbing. But God, he _is_ so cute, and he’s _right here_ , and he is looking at Keith with a gleam in his eyes and a light behind his smile like simply being here with Keith right now makes Shiro the luckiest person in the entire universe. Which is something that Shiro might actually say, if he were in the right mood for sappiness. That thought makes Keith’s lips quirk up, and leads him to lean in and steal a slow, tender kiss.

Maybe Keith can’t say for Shiro, but he only remembers that Kolivan’s still there when he clears his throat. The pointed arch of his eyebrow is less inscrutable than usual, but Keith’s cheeks flush hot as he realizes what message Kolivan’s probably trying to convey: _“So, you **didn’t** desperately want to see this young man, did you? Because your behavior at the moment rather contradicts that statement, advisee.”_

Whatever’s going on in Kolivan’s head, though, his voice is almost unnervingly even as he says, “As Shiro was _saying_ : he informed me that he has not read my work, but that he has heard good things about me from someone he loves, who was in an appointment. He said that his someone respects me a great deal. I asked if you were the someone in question, and everything fell into place.”

“So, there weren’t any… I don’t know, interrogations? Overly probing questions about anything under the sun?” Now that he’s voicing these anxieties, Keith’s struck by how ridiculous they sound. “You two were literally just talking?”

Shiro nods, squeezing Keith’s knee. “I asked about his research and his dog. He asked about my music and my shirt—”

“Yeah, what _is_ going on with your shirt today? It’s cute, but… I don’t… get it?”

For a moment, Shiro blinks at Keith bemusedly. He starts humming something that _sounds_ familiar — so much so that it feels like something’s clawing at the back of Keith’s neck, threatening to rip out his spine because _dammit, he should know this song_ — but Keith can’t quite place the song until Shiro takes pity on him and breaks out the lyrics:

“ _Butterfly in the skyyyy… I can go twice as hiiiiiiiiigh… Take a look, it’s in a book_ —”

“A _reading rainbow_ , oh my _God_ …” Keith groans, but it soon gives way to snorting laughter. “You’re such a _nerd_ …”

“Takes one to know one,” Shiro points out with a grin that practically begs Keith to come kiss him again.

“It is reassuring to see your sense of humor still intact, Keith,” says Kolivan, effectively preventing Keith from taking Shiro up on that unspoken dare with just a few words and an arch of his eyebrow. “You are, however, looking incredibly pensive.”

“Yeah, I guess…” Keith sighs and closes his eyes so he can think more clearly, even for a moment. When he gets back to looking at his advisor like a fellow adult, he says, “Just kinda wondering how much most people would give for this. Like, people who actually _have_ parents, I mean. ‘Cause as I understand it, a lot of them might kill to have their parents hit it off so well with… y’know. Somebody they’re seeing? Their best guy, or best girl, or whatever?”

For a hot second, the gears spinning in Kolivan’s head make themselves clear in his tightly-pursed lips and furrowed brow. But before too long, he lets his mouth quirk up into something like a smile. Giving Keith a pat on the knee, he nods.

Glancing toward Shiro, he says, “Well, it was a pleasure to meet you.” Looking up at Keith, he adds, “Take care, Keith. I will see you later.”

“You’ll have to,” Keith confirms. “Nobody else on the faculty gets how to work with me like you do. No matter what Thace and Antok think.”

As he makes his exit, Kolivan smirks like he’s feeling hopeful, like he really does think that things are going to be okay. On some level, Keith wants to believe that, too. Setting his coffee cup down on the wall might not help much with how cold it’s gotten, but Keith has Shiro here with him. He has Shiro edging around to stand between Keith’s legs, Shiro’s arms snaking protectively around his waist while Keith combs his fingers through Shiro’s bangs, Shiro’s lips brushing against his cheek not gently but reverently, Shiro blushing bright pink and smiling as Keith nudges at his forehead and whispers, _“Now that we’re alone… At least until Pidge and Allura get here…”_

On another level, though, Keith thinks of the packets and pamphlets he shoved into his backpack before letting Shiro carry it out for him. His nose bumps into Shiro’s and his mind kicks up the image of Allura looking like she could’ve cried while asking Keith if he felt worthless. Shiro toys with the hem of Keith’s sweatshirt, teases his hand and the faint traces of his calluses along the skin on Keith’s side, holds Keith against him like losing Keith again, however it happened, truly is Shiro’s greatest fear right now — and Keith’s hand stills on Shiro’s face as he remembers what Kolivan told him earlier: _“You value your work more than your well-being.… You ignore your problems or else deny their existence.… Your attitudes and behaviors have given me cause for concern.…”_

He must be doing something wrong, or worrisome, or other than expected, because next thing Keith knows, Shiro’s leaning up to butt his forehead into Keith’s. In and of itself, that action isn’t weird, except for how Shiro’s wide-eyed and furrowing his brow.

“Everything okay?” he says, squeezing Keith’s hip. “What’s on your mind?”

“Everything and nothing again,” Keith tells him. “’s about as helpful as concussion…”

Thank God Shiro understands enough to let Keith play with his white fringe as he thinks things over quietly. Thank God he knows (or else just correctly guesses) what it means when Keith wriggles in his arms. Nodding, he pulls back without completely letting go of Keith, and thank God for that, too, because Shiro pulling away entirely sounds like the exact last thing that Keith wants right now or ever again. In case there are any doubts between them about that, Keith drapes his arms over Shiro’s shoulder. They just need enough distance that Keith won’t be seeing double when he makes himself look Shiro in the eye.

“For one thing, I… I think I know how I wanna handle the essay? Making things square, right?” With Shiro’s blessing to go on, Keith says, “You know Twenty Questions? I want a variant on that. We can hash out rules so you can safe-word out if I ask something too triggering. Or I can come up with something else if this idea isn’t okay? But…”

Keith nods more for himself than Shiro. “I want to ask you twenty questions, and have you answer in complete honesty.”

Whether he means to do it or not, Shiro tenses. He pulls himself flush against Keith’s chest and, without a word, he presses his face into Keith’s shoulder. Which is more than fair enough, Keith supposes. It’s not as if Keith’s asking Shiro to buy him dinner or new shoes or a puppy. He isn’t even asking Shiro for something more expensive, like lessons so Keith can get a motorcyclist’s license, or expensive _and_ emotionally intense, like a trip to Disneyland. Sure, Shiro said that he’d do anything to help make things square — but as Keith nuzzles at Shiro’s hair and curls his arms tighter around Shiro’s shoulders, he wonders if Shiro actually planned on Keith suggest a thing like this.

“It’s okay if you don’t want to do it,” Keith promises him, nosing at the top of Shiro’s ear. “I can think of something else. And it’s okay if you don’t have an answer right now, or if you need more time think to about it… It’s just an idea…”

An idea sparks up and Keith kisses Shiro’s forehead. “This isn’t about trust for me, okay? I trust you. I don’t wanna interrogate you about anything or act like I _don’t_ trust you, I just…” He sighs and squeezes Shiro so tightly, he might as well be a human set of armor. “I only want to be on the same page. About some things I missed, and some that happened before. And I don’t feel like we are.”

“That’s fair,” Shiro murmurs against Keith’s neck. Pulling back again, he looks up at Keith, dewy-eyed without crying, expression soft without trying to force a smile. “I’m okay with it, but? When do you want to? I just… I want time to prepare for it?”

“Maybe Wednesday? Because you’ve got a meeting tomorrow night, yeah? But sooner is still better than later?”

“Let me know when you’re out of class and we’ll go to my place. I’ll make sure Hunk and Lance won’t interrupt.”

Nodding, Shiro leans up and seals that promise with a kiss. But as he settles back onto his own feet, his face wrinkles up in concern again. He sighs and pushes Keith’s hair back off his face, looking at him like he expects Keith to say something — which probably isn’t an unreasonable thing for him to wish for or want from the guy who says he loves him. Less so, considering that the only thing he asks is if Keith’s doing okay, or is there anything else that’s bugging him.

“D’you know when the NDSU meets?” Keith says. “I mean, since you and Pidge are friends, I just thought you might…”

“Tuesday nights at five. You’ll have to ask her _where_ , but…” Shiro smiles hopefully. “Does that mean you’re going?”

Closing his eyes, Keith nuzzles at Shiro’s cheek. “It means I’m thinking about it. Still undecided, but… Maybe?”

“Well, whatever you decide?” Shiro pecks at the corner of Keith’s mouth and squeezes at his hip. “I’ll be here for you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> —this is me hoping that getting certain pieces of offline family drama out of the way means that the next chapter won’t take so long. In other news, though?
> 
>  **Kolivan:** “If you’re saying that I treat Keith like a son, you’re wrong. Our relationship is solely one of academic and professional mentorship.”
> 
>  **Kolivan, to Keith:** “Now, remember: eat your entire lunch, call your teachers out if they attempt to punish you for thinking critically or doing independent reading, and don’t start fights with the other kids unless they insult your intelligence, your friends, or your boyfriend. If Greasy Johnson tries to beat you up again, hit below the belt; he’s an unrepentant little shit and he deserves it. And if Lotor picks a fight and you don’t win, it’s okay because I’ll just beat up his dad.”
> 
>  **Antok:** “*looks at the camera like he’s on _The Office_ *”


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here I am, posting this chapter right before going to bed and blanking somewhat on what I wanted to say about what goes on. As for the parts that I remember:
> 
>   1. **trigger / content notes for this chapter:** while the on-screen events themselves are relatively tame, Keith and Shiro talk about several very emotionally heavy topics in this chapter, including abuse, gaslighting, trauma, emotional manipulation, abuse/addiction, self-harm, and suicide.  
>    
> 
>   2. Despite the fact that they are working on communicating better and trying to make better life choices, Keith and Shiro remain kind of facepalm-worthy in their shenanigans. They’re trying, I promise. But they’re still a little stupid, and you still have my permission to yell at them as necessary.  
>    
> 
>   3. This chapter is basically the overly long fanfic equivalent of a bottle episode (i.e., very few set-pieces, minimal characters, a lot of talking and feelings and in the words of Abed Nadir from _Community_ , “wall-to-wall facial expression and emotional nuance”) — and I am sorry for that too.  
>    
> 
>   4. I have to talk about the addition of a defined endpoint to this fic, but right now, it’s almost two AM and I’m tired, so… Next time.
> 


Wednesday afternoon seems to come too quickly and not fast enough.

Annoyingly, Tuesday can’t pick a speed to go at. Most of the time, it’s so slow that time might as well be ticking backward. But then sometimes, it speeds up, racing as if it has a chapel to get to and a beloved to stop from marrying someone else. As Keith tries to decide what to text Shiro about nothing out of the ordinary, he ends up lagging by ten minutes before sending something that should’ve come to him naturally. After three rounds of this, he stumbles for five minutes over an attempted apology before he gives up and admits that his head feels like more of a mess than usual. Shiro swears that it’s okay and understandable for Keith to be kind of muddled after what kind of day he had on Monday, but there’s no excuse, if you ask Keith.

On Wednesday itself, Keith can’t tell one way or another, with the flow of time. He drags himself through his classes. He participates, but after Thace’s class gets out, he asks if Keith’s feeling well, so maybe Keith doesn’t participate _enough_. During lunch with Shay and Allura, Keith can barely make himself get anything down. Still, he thinks he feels fine until he’s slumped against Shay’s shoulder, with Allura nudging him awake and asking when he has to be in Ryner’s office for his one-on-one. Through it all, time does what it wants and leaves Keith getting yanked along for the ride because he cannot, unfortunately, opt out of the flow of linear time. If it wants to creep along so slowly that snails’ paces come off looking downright rapid by comparison, then whipsaw back to slipping through Keith’s fingers before he event knows what’s happening, then there isn’t much he can do but muddle through it.

By the time Keith shoots Shiro a text that he’s out of class and heading to Java Hut, it might be a miracle that he hasn’t made off for a restroom to throw up. He hunches around himself as he skulks through the rain-soaked quad, shoulders folding in and hair flopping over his face, too limp to be an effective shield. As long as Keith avoids attracting too much attention, though, he doesn’t care. There’s no reason for him to let anybody see him when he’s bound to be pale and shaky and two steps off from puking. At the crosswalk kitty-corner from his destination, Keith’s knees start trembling like they’re fixing to give out on him. His breaths fight him harder about staying long and slow, and his feet try to trip him up, when the light changes and he darts toward Java Hut’s door.

Stumbling to a halt, Keith collides with the tall, ponytailed person at the end of the line. He knocks right into their arm, like he’s caught whatever the Hell Beezer has that makes him run into walls so often. Keith only doesn’t skid on the floor and topple forward because he catches himself by their elbow. Apologies crash out of him in a jumbled mess — until Shiro turns back enough to let Keith see his face. He doesn’t entirely _smile_ as he pushes some of Keith’s hair back off his face, but that illegible expression isn’t what makes Keith’s nose scrunch up. Rather, there’s the way that Shiro doesn’t have a jacket or his hoodie, only a tight, black t-shirt with bold white letters spelling out, _“Oscar Marcel Federico & James.”_

“We have got to stop running into each other so literally,” Shiro deadpans. Tilting his head down at Keith, he manages an expression that’s more like a smile, but tighter than his shirt. In the face of Keith ducking his chin, Shiro points at the names on his chest and explains, “Wilde, Proust, García Lorca, and Baldwin. Ryou got me this and another one for our last birthday. The other one has Truman Capote, André Gide, Yukio Mishima, and Bayard Rustin.”

“How are you not freezing?” Keith splutters. A deep breath, his eyes slip closed, a moment of silence as he racks his brain for something else that he can say, about Shiro’s shirt or how good it is to see him or _anything_ — and finally, a sigh. “Really, I know it’s not lake effect snow kinds of cold outside, but? Come on, we have _weather_. And it’s _cold_.”

As if this makes his point, he tugs on his own jacket, heavier than his hoodies but not quite his winter coat.

Shrugging, Shiro replies, “My boss told me to take the day off. His husband’s been sick, they’re finally getting it looked at, he didn’t want to make me run the whole place on my own…” Tucking his white fringe behind his ear, he nods toward a table where his hoodie and messenger bag sit with two different cups. “So, after I got lunch with Hunk, I came here to wait for you. Then you texted, and I thought I’d get you a coffee.”

_What? Like it’s really just that easy?_ , Keith thinks but doesn’t allow himself to say.

Even keeping that sentiment to himself, it sounds petulant, presumptuous, and more than a little unfair. Never mind how it’s probably about as wrong as Keith could get about this situation. As he settles on his own two feet at Shiro’s righthand side, Keith can’t miss or mistake the tension in Shiro’s jaw, the way he shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans and still looks like he’s standing at full attention. Nothing about this is currently easy for him, even if he won’t admit it.

Keith chokes down another sigh and a litany of objections as he casts his eyes down at his sneakers. Something isn’t right and it’s probably his fault, and this fact means that he should fix everything somehow? He shouldn’t follow Shiro silently as the line moves up, or let Shiro order his extra-large, “as close to Vantablack as you can brew it” coffee and then pay for it. At least, he ought to put up his usual fuss about not wanting to be in anyone’s debt because if nothing else, doing that would lend this scene some much-needed normalcy. Keith shouldn’t be biting the inside of his cheek while he and Shiro move aside to wait for Keith’s coffee. Technically, he probably shouldn’t be biting the inside of his cheek at all, but it’s worse when he needs to find something he can do to make everything okay again, as soon as possible.

But as he nudges at Shiro’s side, the only thing Keith can find to say is, “You didn’t have to get me anything?”

“I know, but I wanted to,” Shiro replies, apparently without even thinking about it.

That sentiment hangs there between them for a moment, and it could be well enough. Except Shiro cringes, shakes his head, and murmurs an apology. “Not that I didn’t _want_ to get you coffee, because I _did_? But the whole point today is honesty, openness, and sharing things… But here I come again with the canned responses. Right?”

Keith shrugs and supposes that he doesn’t really know, because so much of small talk is canned responses and recycled scripts in the first place. But even so, he taps at Shiro’s wrist until his hand comes out of the pocket. Target sighted, Keith laces their fingers together and gives Shiro’s warm, huge, calloused hand a squeeze. He means to stay in his own sphere of personal space as much as he can while holding hands like this, not least because he and Shiro are currently in public. But Shiro’s shoulder looks so inviting, and he chuckles when Keith puts his head there, instead of asking Keith to get off of him.

“Besides, Kashi,” he says off-handedly. “That cut from Dolly _used_ to be right, but… Not so much now.”

“Oh, really?” Shiro huffs, and Keith can’t tell if it’s in amusement or something else. “Which one are you thinking?”

“Torn between, ‘The Fire That Keeps You Warm’ and… erm.”

It would probably be well enough for Keith to simply name his other choice. There are enough people in the coffee-shop right now to make Keith’s instincts questionable, enough people who could overhear and make this idea turn embarrassing, and he should answer the question without any frills and leave it at that. But Keith’s backpack weighs heavier than usual on his shoulders, even though there’s no logical reason for this because the only change in its contents is that Keith scribbled more than twenty prospective questions for Shiro on a notebook page. Not that he plans to ask everything, since several of his questions are pointlessly stupid things Keith tossed off to get himself going, and Shiro might address some of them while he tries to answer others. But they’re still doing this. Keith will still pick twenty things to ask Shiro—

Warmth twinges across his cheeks at the thought of this evening’s plans. Trying to ignore the cold, guilty, twisting feeling in the pit of his stomach, Keith tightens his hold on Shiro’s hand. Tugging him down and leaning up closer to his ear, Keith keeps his own voice low as he croons, “ _Guess I had to go away just to find what I left behind. You’re the only one, you’re the only one. Take me back to where we started from—_ ”

One of the employees calls Keith’s name, and something in him wants to scream. Thankfully, he doesn’t call the consequences for that down on his head. He grabs his coffee and thanks the for it, then trails after Shiro as he grabs his things and leads them to the street. But even hovering at Shiro’s side while they wait for a crosswalk, even with one hand twined up with Shiro’s again, Keith keeps drifting to all of the _“What if?”_ s about this idea that he hasn’t managed to shake off yet. Sure, Shiro said that he’s okay with this and that he was working on mentally preparing himself, but he’s so quiet and what if that means something bad?

After a few blocks, Shiro squeezes Keith’s hand at a crosswalk. Keith blushes, but makes himself look up at Shiro because he’s an adult, and he loves Shiro, and he should act like it. Part of acting like it — part of acting like any of it is true — means meeting Shiro’s eyes as much as possible, because that’s what you _do_ when talking to people, especially when you love them. Even if Keith didn’t love him, Shiro deserves that courtesy and Keith’s full attention more than anyone else in Keith’s life. He tries to force a smile, but Shiro rubs a thumb along Keith’s wrist as if that expression is trying his patience.

“You don’t have to do that, Keith,” he says. “Honesty runs both ways, right?”

Makes sense enough, Keith guesses. Except letting his face fall out of that doesn’t seem to ease Shiro’s tension any.

“I was just thinking about your song choice.” As the light at the crosswalk changes, Shiro sighs. He doesn’t speak up again until they’re halfway down the next block. “It’s a good song? And I do see where you’re coming from with it? But we _can’t_ really go back to where we started from, can we?”

“Literally? Not unless Ryou’s cracked time travel lately.” Keith gives himself a moment, then says, “I don’t get what Dolly really meant with that line? I don’t know if I ever did? Maybe it’s like, she wants to go back to some kind of intimacy that they lost?”

“Except maybe wasn’t as intimate as she thought… Not that she was exactly _wrong_ , but like…”

The way Shiro trails off is incomprehensible and heavy, and Keith doesn’t like it. Something feels stuck in his throat from taking in Shiro’s profile, how pale he looks, and the way everything about him _but_ his posture seems to sag. His ponytail might as well be hanging there, soaking wet and weighed down into limpness. He has his lips pursed but his jaw isn’t tight. So much disquiet spills out on his face, cloaking his features in an overcast that might well summon actual clouds, _that’s_ how powerful this expression feels.

Whenever their progress gets held up, Shiro rolls out his shoulders and straightens up as if he’s enduring one of the old lacrosse team inspections, or trying to avoid disappointing his Grandfather Namesake, or fighting himself to keep from slouching where Maurice might disapprove. Keith can practically see the burden weighing down Shiro’s shoulders, and the struggle as Shiro forces himself not to stoop for whatever’s plaguing him. His hoodie’s big enough on him that Keith can’t make out much of _anything_ about Shiro’s stomach, but it wouldn’t surprise him to catch Shiro sucking in without even noticing that he’s doing it, pulling his abs tighter than can possibly be comfortable, like anybody who deserves Shiro’s attention would call them anything but impeccable if he let himself relax.

Everything about him looks like he’s getting yanked in a hundred ways at once and he’s ready to snap — not simply lose it emotionally, but full-on physically come apart at his seams. No wonder he can’t explain what he meant with that crack about intimacy. They’re closing in on Shiro’s place when he gives up and lets himself sigh again, slouching at the hips while another crosswalk makes them wait.

“I’m thinking about that line again,” he explains. “Or maybe more like, ‘thinking about it _still_ ’?”

“It wasn’t really the one that I was thinking about,” Keith tells him, butting his shoulder against Shiro’s and hoping that he gets the message about Keith being here for him. Maybe none of this will actually fix anything — maybe he’s only managing to make things worse — but right now, Keith would rather not leave Shiro at the mercy of his own thoughts. “I focused more on the lines in there about loving you so much, and finding you after I thought I’d lost you forever, and never wanting to break your heart again…”

“You never…” Shiro stops himself and drags in a deep breath that never seems to stop. He drains the last of his drink and pitches the cup in a trashcan outside his building before trying to speak again. “It wasn’t ever that you broke my heart. But that wasn’t really my point either?”

“You don’t need to make a point… You can just?” Shaking his head, Keith huffs. “I don’t know? Let it be? If you want?”

As Shiro pauses at the wall of mailboxes, Keith nearly keeps walking. He barely avoids tripping on his own feet, turning and coming back to Shiro’s side. He keeps his mouth shut while Shiro flicks through the collection of envelopes and magazines, no matter how much he’s burning up to beg Shiro to cut him loose already. Either clear up what he meant or admit that he doesn’t really want to do this after all because he’s realized that he made a mistake by letting Keith back into his life. Keith isn’t worth Shiro humiliating himself — or worse, triggering himself into God only knows what kind of awfulness — by dredging up whatever ghosts Keith wants to get more details about. And he must have recognized this by now, right?

A heavy sigh and a mailbox door snapping shut kick Keith out of his own thoughts, but for a long moment, Shiro stays quiet. He shuts his eyes and hangs his head, and finally gives himself the slightest bit of leeway about slouching. When Keith squeezes his shoulder, Shiro doesn’t flinch, and that’s probably a good thing, right? Except it doesn’t feel that way when he still needs Keith to prod about whether or not he’s feeling okay before admitting to how muddled his thoughts are being about that _one line_ in the chorus of, “You’re The Only One.”

“You don’t have to explain it or anything,” says Keith. “We hear different things, it’s okay?”

“But I _want_ to explain,” Shiro insists, for all he doesn’t open his eyes, much less look at Keith. “I want to tell you what I got out of it. Because the song means something to you, and I can see what you were going for with that choice in Dolly? And I don’t want to let you think that what I got out of it was negative? It’s not even an interpretation of the song, not really…”

Keith nods, rubbing at Shiro’s shoulder and the soft cotton of his sweatshirt. Thank God his bag’s strap is on the other side. The weave looks coarse enough to be complete sensory Hell, and managing any semblance of patience is hard enough without that. Maybe Keith isn’t really calming down as much as he could from the feeling of Shiro’s shirt, either, but at least it coaxes Shiro’s eyes back open. He keeps wrinkling his nose at his mailbox instead of looking at Keith, but progress is progress, Keith supposes.

“All I meant was that we _can’t_ go back to the way things were, not literally? But…”

Finally, Shiro turns his eyes to Keith, and nothing about his expression makes any sense. Not that this is _bad_. In the back of his mind, Keith knows he’s about the last person in the universe who has any right to complain about anything. Still, it’d be nice if someone could explain why in the Hell Shiro is giving him _that_ look again, the soft one that Keith can’t remember seeing Shiro give to anybody else. He isn’t quite smiling but his eyes aren’t entirely misting over, but he isn’t holding himself back, either. He’s so unguarded that Keith wants to put walls up around Shiro _for_ him, so nobody can hurt him again — Keith himself included. That openness makes Shiro look much younger than twenty-seven, but the haunted, yearning air he’s got about him, especially about his eyes, makes Shiro him seem far older.

More than anything else, though, he is fixed on Keith, looking at Keith as if his entire life hangs on Keith and what he does — and the quirk of his lips seems to say that he trusts Keith. All of it sets something cold loose on Keith’s stomach, twisting like he’s being stabbed as he forces himself not to look away from Shiro.

“I don’t think it’s _bad_ that we can’t go back, Keith,” he says, and his face keeps looking like that. “We aren’t _completely_ different from who we were, but we aren’t exactly the same either, and that, to me? It’s better. I mean, sixteen-year-old Shiro is better than twenty-two-year-old Shiro, but I was still a borderline closet-case and a walking nervous breakdown with horrible taste in friends—”

“Stop talking like that!” Keith cuts in before he can tell himself to stop. “You only wanted to feel like you had a group to belong to. You wanted to have _friends_ , and you didn’t want to get outed, and you’re so _good_ with _people_ most of the time, like? Maybe you weren’t _happy_ even though you deserved to be? And yeah, you deserved better friends, but you didn’t do anything wrong and if you _hadn’t_ had your horrible friends, then what if we’d never even…”

As his brain finally catches up to his mouth, Keith swallows thickly and hopes to all high Hell that he doesn’t sound like he’s been snapping. He blushes in the face of Shiro’s startled blinking and tells him, “Sorry, I should let you finish, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to come off, like…? But you were sounding, I don’t know, so judgmental, and unfairly critical, and…”

Keith sighs. “Sorry, I’ll shut up, I just… I wish you didn’t feel so bad about yourself, okay?”

Shiro nods and reaches over to tuck some of Keith’s hair behind his ear. He leaves his hand cupped around Keith’s cheek as he says, “Well, that makes us even in one way, at least? Because I wish you didn’t feel so negatively about yourself, too.”

He noses at Keith’s forehead, then hesitates. When Keith nods that it’s okay, Shiro presses a gentle kiss onto his skin.

“What we have now isn’t going to be what we had back then,” Shiro whispers, sounding completely certain for the first time today. “There’s no way it can be the same. But I want to make something new with you, and I want to make our new something _better_.”

A few deep breaths, then Shiro tells him, “I’m nervous, too. But I think you’re right about this. Maybe not that we can ever be on the _exact_ same page? But some things I’ve thought about, we should open up in the first place, because you deserve to know about them. Others need to get aired so we can move forward without them _haunting_ us as much. Even if they’ll never go away, we can’t deal with them if we pretend that they aren’t there…”

Kissing Keith’s forehead, Shiro drops his hand to Keith’s shoulder and squeezes gently. “Yes, I’m nervous. But I’m ready for this, if you are.”

Curling his fingers around Shiro’s wrist, Keith nods. “I’m all in.”

*** * ***

First thing’s first, once they’re up in the apartment, and that’s making Shiro comfortable. He most likely won’t stay at any kind of even emotional keel, once they get talking, so the least they can do is set up his surroundings so that, physically, he feels as safe as possible.

To that end, Keith puts the kettle on while Shiro takes his back and Keith’s backpack to his bedroom. When Keith joins him with two mugs of tea and a cold can of Diet Coke, he’s changed into a pair of silver-black-and-purple plaid pajama bottoms and his _“Church of St. George Michael”_ t-shirt. The bags wait in front of his bedside table, and Shiro bids Keith to make himself at home without looking away from his full-length mirror. Apparently, he’s absorbed in brushing out his hair, tying it back up again, and getting his ponytail to fit some specific and exacting standards that Keith can’t quite discern. But that’s okay, as long as Shiro feels alright, and Keith busies himself with digging his notebook out of his backpack instead.

So Shiro can’t forget or neglect to do it himself, Keith digs the translucent orange bottle out of Shiro’s bag. The label identifies the contents as Alprazolam, which must be the generic name for Xanax, and lists the dosage as .5 milligrams to a tablet, taken as needed for anxiety. Shiro nods and agrees that having those more immediately on-hand is better for him. When he joins Keith on the bed, though, Shiro reaches for his stuffed black lion, not his meds.

“You hang onto those,” he says, settling in opposite Keith, who’s leaning against the headboard. “If I need them, I’ll ask. But if I don’t, it’s okay for you to check in on me. Ulaz and I are working on that, but… Sometimes, I need to be prodded?”

Something about Shiro’s therapist’s name sounds so strangely familiar, but Keith banishes that thought for now. He can’t place what’s striking such a chord for him, exactly, and at the moment, it’s not important.

Second thing’s second, and that’s working out the rules for how this is going to work, how they can best avoid triggering Shiro while still opening up the conversations that they need to have. As the game’s name says, Keith gets twenty questions. Per Shiro’s suggestion, he can tack on one follow-up question, based on how Shiro answers and what he says. Banter doesn’t count against either of Keith’s total number of questions.

If Shiro gets evasive or dodgy, Keith has his blessing to nudge, but Shiro reserves the right to use idle chitchat to work himself up to the full answer, because some of the questions might be difficult for him. Hunk and Lance know to head up to Matt and Pidge’s place instead of coming straight home when they get off work, so there shouldn’t be any interruptions from them. In case the conversation starts skirting too close to triggers for Shiro, or if he feels like it might, they’ve got a safe-word in place: _“Pink Flamingos”_ cuts off any line of discussion.

“This doesn’t count toward my twenty either, but…” Keith wrinkles his nose. “D’you mean like the John Waters movie?”

Shiro nods. “That came from Ulaz, too. He suggested that Lance and I try out a conversational safe-word. For the times when Lance isn’t getting that he needs to back off, or when I’m maybe getting a bit more morbid than I mean to and Lance doesn’t like it, or any other time when we might need it. Hunk and Pidge use it now, too, so… It’s open to you outside of this exercise, if you want?”

“Okay, but did your therapist suggest _Pink Flamingos_?” Keith says. “Or was that all on you two?”

Shrugging, Shiro explains, “We were debating which of John Waters’s movies is the grossest? Lance’s rationale was like, ‘We should pick a safe-word that’s totally disgusting while still being something we can say around other people, and hey, why not a John Waters title.’ It came down to that one and _Female Trouble_ , and I don’t know… I felt like saying, ‘Female Trouble’ in public would’ve been more awkward than Lance seemed to think?”

“All I remember from _Female Trouble_ is, ‘Nice girls don’t wear cha-cha heels,’” Keith says off-handedly. “Pretty much that and, ‘I wouldn’t suck your lousy dick if I was suffocating and there was oxygen in your balls.’”

Which is actually pretty decent recall, if you ask Keith. After all, the movie has its moments but he doesn’t remember it making much in the way of comprehensible sense. On top of that, he hasn’t seen hide nor hair of it or any other John Waters movie since Allura dragged him to a, “Coran-sanctioned, LGBTQ Students’ Coalition-sponsored, but _definitely_ not approved by Dean Zarkon” marathon on campus during last year’s orientation week. Before that, he hadn’t seen _Female Trouble_ since March 2013, about two weeks before Shiro’s Maurice-induced vanishing act. Shiro’d had a long day at the bookstore and Keith had had a long day in class and he knew Shiro had only cooperated about eating dinner because he was too exhausted to put up a fight in the face of Keith worrying without any energy behind it.

Slouching against Shiro’s headboard now, Keith remembers trying to enjoy the movie, that time, the way same way that he had when Shiro had first introduced him to it. He remembers tucking himself under Shiro’s chin and leaning against his chest while he slouched against his headboard with the DVD playing on his old computer. Keith remembers forcing himself to chuckle or sound appropriately grossed out when he knew that he was supposed to react. But mostly, he remembers how he spent that viewing worrying about the way that Shiro wouldn’t do much more than sigh disconsolately into Keith’s hair, occasionally mumble something about how none of his then-current songs-in-progress were coming together how he wanted, and wrap his arms around Keith’s waist like he was terrified of something that Keith couldn’t identify or put words on at the time that might have been related to Maurice or his addictions or the pining over someone who was too stupid to realize it, even when Shiro was nuzzling at him so gently and acting like the only safety he knew anymore was right there, with Keith—

“Oh! And there was, ‘I worry that you’ll get married, work in an office, and have kids, the world of heterosexuals is a sick and boring life’ or something?” Blushing, Keith lets his shoulders hunch and curls one of his legs closer to his chest. “That was from _Female Trouble_ too, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, but now I feel like you might be, erm? Fixating on quotes from the movie because they’re easier to deal with, y’know, anything else…?” Shiro says it without judgment. The smile that he gives Keith is a mix of rueful and understanding, like maybe he knows what incident Keith had on his mind. Like maybe he’s been thinking about it, too. “Also, I feel like we’re both stalling? Even though the anxiety won’t get better if we put things off?”

That’s a more than fair assessment, but they don’t have too much more to clear up about the rules. All that’s left is establishing how they’ll handle things taking a turn for the worse. If Shiro _does_ end up having a panic attack or an anxiety spiral, or otherwise needing his Xanax, then the game ends. They can try to pick it up again another day, because Shiro wants to give Keith his full “twenty” questions, but if he gets to the point of taking his meds, he swears that his answers won’t be of use to Keith anyway.

“It’s not about what’s _of use_ to me,” Keith tells him sigh a sigh, fighting off the impulse to bang his head against the wall. According to Shiro, that apparently counts as a form of self-harm now, and making him worry won’t make this conversation easier. “I want _honesty_ , but I _don’t_ want to make you suffer. I’m not gonna push you like that after a panic attack or anything.”

Shiro nods, but the next thing he says is, “So… First question?”

“Nice and easy.” Which is probably for the best. Tapping a capped pen against his open page, Keith reads over two possible questions before settling on, “So why’d you read my essay in the first place? You said you were curious, but about _what_? And what were you really hoping to get out of doing that?”

“First, I was curious about what you said in general?” It’s a bit early for Shiro to be sighing like this, but at least he explains why without hesitation: “I wasn’t the one who first found it. Hunk was checking his email on my laptop. He opened the file, he and Pidge skimmed enough to see it was about you and me, and while I was in the shower, Lance tried to tell them to back off because you probably hadn’t meant to leave the document there for me—”

“I _didn’t_ , but…” Keith groans. “Did those three read the whole thing, too?”

Swallowing thickly, Shiro nods. “They _mostly_ did it to keep an eye on me. I can’t speak to any other motivations that they might’ve had? But their biggest concern was looking out for me while I read something important to me, in case I got upset.” He huffs. Closes his eyes and thinks for a moment. Then admits, “They didn’t enjoy the bit about me mixing tequila and liquid Vicodin.”

“Can’t say I _blame_ them, Takashi,” Keith mutters. Maybe he’s skirting close to the realm of _too harsh_ , especially with him using _that_ name to address Shiro. But as Keith grinds his thumb against his finger, trying to re-center himself, he can’t help pointing out, “I didn’t enjoy seeing one of the only people I’ve ever really loved keep pointing a fake-cherry-and-Cuervo-flavored liquid gun at his head like it was a joke. So, I’d guess reading about it wasn’t exactly _nice_ for them. As if it’s their place to judge you for—”

“They didn’t… It wasn’t like…” Shiro knots one hand up in the black lion’s mane. “They weren’t judging, exactly? Pidge and Hunk didn’t take reading that part well, but there was a lot I hadn’t told them about how bad things ever got for me back in Chicago. It took them by surprise, and they reacted emotionally before calming down…”

Looking Keith dead in the eye, Shiro tells him, “Lance was the one who put a pin in that whole conversation before it could go too far. _Lance_ was the one who went, ‘We’re rubbing Shiro’s face in things he already regrets, this is done.’ He still… didn’t handle other parts of the story well, but…” A shrug, and Shiro tucks his white fringe behind his ear. “His outbursts were split about evenly between indignation aimed at you and, ‘What the Hell, Shiro, how did you _not get_ that he was in love with you, back then.’”

“Okay, but… None of them’s tried to kill me?” Which sounds mild-to-moderately ridiculous, when Keith hears himself say it, but come on. Surely, one of them should’ve wanted to get _some_ kind of vengeance for Shiro. And yet… “Lance was even _nicer_ to me than usual, that night. Hunk likes seeing me at your practices. Then, Pidge said she likes me and wants to be _friends_? Why hasn’t one of them, I don’t know, come at me?”

“Because none of them thinks that you’re a monster, after reading what you wrote. Based on their reactions, they think that you’re clever, troubled, resilient, damaged, idealistic, not quite as angry as you want people to think, scared of being hurt, and very much in love with me — and I agree with them, so…” Sounds like they’ve reached the point where Shiro wants to curtail that line of thought, or that’s what Keith gets from the way Shiro trails off.

But then he has to go and add on, “Also, I told them not to gossip about the essay or let you know that they’d read it. I didn’t tell them _why_ , but… I’m the one who told them that they could read it with me. Which means _I’m_ the one who needed to own that choice and tell you.”

Makes sense enough. And Keith nods, because he understands, he _does_. But he still has to point out, “You haven’t told me why you wanted to read it yet, though? Which was the question that I actually asked.”

“We got hung up on the context,” Shiro supposes. “It’s nobody’s fault… We both got kind of distracted.”

Rolling out his shoulders, Shiro makes himself sit up slightly straighter. Not by much — and fact is, however stern he can look when he gets his posture _just so_ , Shiro’s going to have a hard time managing that now. After all, he is still sitting cross-legged on his mattress, in his pajamas, with a stuffed black lion in his lap and a messy collection of blankets featuring, among other things, the old _Infinite Diversity In Infinite Combinations_ symbol from _Star Trek_ , the theatrical release posters from _Return of the Jedi_ and _Tangled_ , what looks like a promotional shot of Ian McKellen as Magneto from some _X-Men_ movie of another, and the album cover from George Michael’s _Faith_. The picture Shiro cuts would be adorable, if not for the current round of Twenty Questions.

Before Keith can prod again, Shiro tells him, “Mostly, I was just curious. I wanted to know what you’d written about us. About _me_. I was having a hard time reading you and trying to interpret how you were acting. I thought the essay might be, I don’t know… The Rosetta Stone of Keith Kogane?”

“Which… I guess that it was? Apparently?”

“It _helped_ , yes? But some of the biggest things that I took away from it were less, ‘Keith Kogane For Dummies’ and more like… The shock of looking back at so many incidents and cringing at what an _idiot_ I’d been. Or realizing how much I hurt you in ways that I hadn’t even _considered_ …” Shiro gives himself a deep breath and ruffles the black lion’s fur. “More importantly, though? I got that we needed to talk, and that I needed to just… Stop assuming how you felt about me and tell you how I feel about you. Tell you that I love you, and I’m _in love_ with you, and I…”

His eyes glimmer without quite misting over as he says, “I’ll tell you that every day now, if you want me to.”

“I… You can tell me so whenever you want.” Keith hates the way his entire face flushes hot. He hates how hugging his leg doesn’t effectively let him hide. He hates that he’s blanking on which of the other questions he wanted to throw out second — but instead of consulting his notebook, he blurts out, “So, when did you last jerk off?”

The effect is instantaneous and probably more adorable than Shiro realizes. Wide-eyed, he blinks at Keith and purses his lips. Pink blooms spring up on his cheeks. Almost as soon as Keith starts appreciating that rosy glow, though, it deepens to a dark red that is, if anything, even more unfairly beautiful. That blush spills out over Shiro’s whole face and down his neck, and his voice quivers around asking if he heard Keith right or not, and what exactly is the point of Keith asking him that question because Shiro can’t think of any off-hand.

Keith shrugs as if he planned this in advance. “You were curious about my essay. I’m curious about you jerking off.”

For all he heaves an exhausted sigh, Shiro still gives Keith his answer: “In the shower this morning, okay? I got up and took my meds with breakfast. I went to the gym and took an mp3 player that only has an hour-and-a-half of music on it. Its repeat-loop function is broken, so I have to pause and start the playlist over, which means it’s time to go… Then I came back here and jerked off in the shower.”

“What were you thinking about?” comes out of Keith before he realizes that he wants to know.

That follow-up makes Shiro slouch more noticeably and close his eyes as he tells Keith, “First, I thought about you shoving me against a wall and kissing me with your hand in my pants. Then, I thought about Ulaz doing me slowly, like? Slow, deep, not making me _work_ for it but dragging it out even while the Ulaz in my head was being painfully gentle—”

“Wait, you thought about your _therapist_?”

“And _then_?” Shiro insists before Keith can take that too far. His face is red enough to look sunburnt, and he grinds his thumb at the bridge of his nose as he admits, “Then it went back to you. And you were, erm… You were just _you_ , and we were _together_ , and it was _good_ , and _you_ … Not that we ever _need_ to do this — I mean, I would _like_ to, but only if you wanted, and I’m not saying you have to want it literally ever?”

Groaning, Shiro forces himself to look at Keith. His fingers tremble around his lion’s plush head. “I thought you were going to fuck me face-first into the mattress,” he says. “But you rolled me over so I could look at you. And then you… I don’t know, _made love_ to me into the mattress? Because it was hard and deep and thorough but it didn’t feel like _fucking_ , and you were attentive and affectionate and _oh my God, can we move on to your next question, please_?”

“Sure, but two things…?” Keith probably shouldn’t let his face crinkle up like it’s doing. But he’s so lost that he has to shake his head to make himself spit out, “I mean, for one thing, it’s just… Ulaz is your _therapist_ , right?”

“He said it isn’t that uncommon? For people who’ve been through a lot of what I have? Like, you know… intimate partner violence. Near-death experiences. Abuse…” Shiro doesn’t hunch his shoulders, but his strawberry blush makes a full resurgence and he can’t meet Keith’s eyes as he says, “So, this one time, I hadn’t really slept? I’d had too much coffee, Lotor and I were putting each other through the emotional wringer again, and I felt even worse because I had a _boyfriend_ but I was fantasizing about my _therapist_ , who’s _married_ and loves his husband? But I blurted it out at him in that session, and Ulaz paused everything to tell me that it’s okay and I’m not a bad person for fantasizing…”

Dragging his fingers back through his bangs, Shiro sighs. “Apparently, it can happen if you get out of a bad situation. Especially if you have a good therapist. It often has to do with them being kind and helping you sort your life out — and it doesn’t help that Ulaz really is good-looking? But…” His lower lip quivers plaintively and his eyes beg Keith to please spare him any further mortification. “You had a second thing though, right?”

“Yeah, but it’s just…” Keith shrugs. “Why wouldn’t I be open to topping you? Or doing it nicely?”

“That isn’t really… It’s more complicated than that?” Shiro huffs, scrubbing his hand up and down his face. As much as Keith wants to ask what kind of _complicated_ they’re dealing with right now, he can’t bring himself to do it. Shiro looks like the embarrassment might kill him.

“So, do you know Dr. Iverson?” Keith says. “From school?”

It’s like magic: Shiro’s still pink, but he perks up and chirps, “Oh, yeah, Mitch! Mitch is great—”

“Okay, so _how_ do you know him and why is he _Mitch_ to you?”

Personally, Keith can’t imagine calling Dr. Iverson anything but that or, _“sir.”_ If he hadn’t seen the framed PhD hanging on the wall in the man’s office, Keith might’ve guessed that his parents gave him, _“Doctor”_ as a first name. The fact that Shiro apparently has no such inhibitions? Even more confusing than Dr. Iverson possibly recognizing Shiro’s name.

“Well, Ryou knew him first?” Shiro explains. The energy drops, but his cheeks are getting back to their usual color. Moreover, he doesn’t hesitate, not even as he tells Keith, “I don’t know if it’s usually okay for me to share this, but… He was on Ryou’s review committee, when he did his dissertation. But I met Mitch at my Tuesday night meetings. I didn’t know he was the same as Ryou’s, ‘Dr. Iverson’ ’til Ryou wanted to introduce us. Mostly because we don’t use surnames at meetings?”

Shiro only pauses so he can chuckle. “Mitch figured out at my first meeting that he was probably meeting Ryou’s _famous_ brother before either of us even _considered_ … I mean, Ryou had to take a off for a week-and-a-half right after the start of a new semester. He came back, talking about checking me into rehab — not that he shared too many details? And I _told him_ to just tell his professors the truth — then I show up at a meeting, like six weeks after that? I say I’m new in town and they said in rehab that I’m supposed to avoid major life changes in my first year of sobriety? But I couldn’t stay in Chicago and at least I have a brother who wanted to help me out…”

With a small but genuine smile, Shiro wraps up, “Mitch said it wasn’t really that hard to put it together? Between him knowing our family name, and me calling myself, ‘Shiro’ instead of, ‘Takashi’ while looking like a skinny Ryou?”

“I guess Iverson wouldn’t be such a big deal if he weren’t intelligent…” Keith kneads idly at one of his temples. “I don’t usually see him on campus? But he seemed to recognize your name after making your ex stop trying to get in my pants after I told him to fuck off, so…” Uncurling his leg, Keith sighs and picks up his mug off the bedside table. “Here’s question number four: how’d you and Lotor even crash into each other’s lives in the first place?”

“How’s the tea doing?” Shiro says.

Rather than try to guess if it’s ready enough for Shiro, Keith hands over his mug.

After a deep breath and an experimental sip, Shiro tells him, “I met Lotor at Moonstruck. Random chance meeting.”

“I’m guessing you had a bar chaperone and slipped away…” Keith has to finagle with his words so that it won’t technically count as a question. He’s given Shiro more of a _prompt_ than anything.

“I actually didn’t,” says Shiro, taking the hint. “First time I met Lotor… It was the week before that year’s Thanksgiving. I’d been in town and out of rehab for maybe three weeks. I’d reconnected with Matt. Met Hunk, Lance, and Pidge — and met Slav, unfortunately. I’d had my first couple sessions with Ulaz — Miranda, our usual leader at meetings? She helped recommend me some therapists. Lucky me, I hit it off with the first one I tried. But Ryou and I were having differences of opinion… Some of them pretty big… About fairly _contentious_ topics…”

“All of these euphemisms right now?” Keith points out over the rim of his mug. “Maybe it’s just me? But you’re kinda making it sound like rehab turned you into some Bible-beating, Log Cabin, ‘America, fuck yeah!’ Reagan-apologist.”

Keith doesn’t think it was that funny, but Shiro snorts so hard, he nearly chokes on his tea.

“Thankfully, it didn’t,” he says around a barely-repressed snicker. “But I checked in for substance abuse and came out with an official diagnosis like, ‘Yes, Takashi, you _do_ have an eating disorder and you can’t pretend otherwise anymore.’ The counselors and therapists there, they said that I should consider seeing a nutritionist or a dietitian when I got out. Miranda and Ulaz both thought it sounded like a great idea. Ryou really wanted me to listen to the professionals here…”

“But you were already adjusting to meetings and a therapist!” Keith takes a long sip of his tea but it doesn’t steady his nerves any, or quench the desire to go back in time and yell at some of these people on Shiro’s behalf. “Not that I think they were _wrong_ or whatever, I can see their point? But they couldn’t expect you to do _all of that_ at once.”

“The problem was, nobody could be sure I’d ever get around to it if I waited,” Shiro explains, suddenly somber. “But Ryou and I argued about it over dinner without really getting anywhere. I went out for a walk — which wasn’t weird? I hated being sat on for at least an hour after every meal. I hated how Hunk and Lance and Matt knew to sit on me but didn’t know why. I hated that I had to tell them why and I really didn’t want to, especially since I’d just met Hunk and Lance. I usually bolted as soon as I was allowed so I could have some space and clear my head. Except that night, I wound up at the bar. Because I wanted space from _Ryou_ , but I wanted to be around people… Except being in a bar was just…? It made me want to drink, and getting my Diet Coke and lime didn’t help as much as I wanted, and then?”

His shrug looks like it’s trying too hard to seem casual. “There was this tall, trenchcoat-wearing drink of water with a long, purple ponytail. He winks at me from down the bar. Comes over and asks what I’m drinking. He tries to sell me on his overpriced Patrón—”

“Oh _God_ ,” Keith mutters. “But he didn’t _manage_ it…?”

“Not _that_ night, no.” Still, there’s something about Shiro’s inflection and the way he stares down at his tea. Something that says Lotor probably succeeded at other points. Shaking his head, Shiro pipes up again, “We played, ‘No Lies.’ Which was what he called, ‘Asking each other whatever random questions we could think of, telling no lies in the answers.’ I don’t think that he believed me when I said I’d only gotten out of rehab on Halloween, not least since I was in a _bar_. But I didn’t believe him when he said that his family used to be royalty before they’d had to flee Daibazaal, so both of us wound up being wrong. Anyway, Ryou was texting to ask when I thought I’d be coming back, and I hated feeling like I was worrying him? But I also hated feeling stifled and suffocated. And I hated _myself_ for even feeling stifled and suffocated in the first place when all Ryou wanted to do was help me however he could…

“I may not have _slept with_ Lotor, that first night?” Shiro ruffles his white fringe loose so he can comb his fingers through it. “But I went home with him. I really didn’t feel ready to let any new guys see me naked or to explain where all my scars came from? But according to him, I gave him the first blow-job in his life that actually shook him… His choice of words was, ‘wrecked’—”

“You _do_ know how to put your mouth to use…” Keith tries to smile, because he wants this to sound playful, possibly even reassuring. Gently, he bats his toes against Shiro’s knee, hoping that he takes it as a reminder that he’s not alone.

However he’s interpreting things, Shiro tells Keith, “All I meant was? I went home with Lotor that first time to spite Ryou for trying to care about me. I didn’t see him again until _after_ Ryou and I went on our California misadventure, but… Our first time together wasn’t even about _him_ or us or… I wanted to do something that my brother wouldn’t approve of. For a lot of reasons? But a big one was…” He drops his hand from his hair and gives Keith a heavy, downcast look. “I didn’t want him to be right about me needing more help than I was already getting. I mean, I hated feeling sick, but I didn’t think I deserved to feel anything else, either…”

With a huff, Shiro begrudgingly lets his lips quirk up in something that wants to be a smile but can’t quite get there. “I won’t say that our first night _completely_ set the tone for how mine and Lotor’s relationship went?” he says. “But in some ways, it feels like it did, y’know what I mean?”

When Keith nods in understanding, Shiro throws himself headlong into his tea. Keith swallows the sigh that tries to crawl up and out of his throat. He’s more than fine with letting Shiro take this moment. For one thing, it’s worth the wait if this helps him keep himself grounded, if it helps him stave off any flashbacks or panic attacks. Glancing down at his notebook, Keith skims over some of his questions and his eyes keep falling on the name _Maurice_. Of course, Shiro probably expects that asshole to come up more than a few times — but it’s annoying to keep stumbling into him right now, when Keith’s trying to find a question that _isn’t_ directly related to Maurice and everything he did to Shiro. Somewhere on this page, there are questions that give Shiro more of a break, a little bit of breathing room between the emotionally heavy topics.

Secondly, though, Keith needs this break himself. The follow-up he wanted put out there — _“Did you really love Lotor?”_ — tingles on the tip of his tongue, pricking and clawing at him, screaming at Keith to ask it already because he’s allowed to ask whatever he wants and why shouldn’t he get verbal confirmation one way or the other. Breathing deeply doesn’t steady his nerves and tea doesn’t settle his stomach in the way Keith wants. But Shiro’s fighting not to hunch his shoulders as he drains the rest of his tea. As he hands the empty mug back to Keith and hugs the black lion to his stomach, Shiro’s expression doesn’t go soft exactly, but he lets himself look lost in ways that most people never get to see.

That clear things up perfectly for Keith: his follow-up question would be unnecessarily cruel when the answer’s sitting right in front of him. Shiro wouldn’t be this upset about discussing Lotor or their relationship if the pointy, purple-haired asshole didn’t mean anything to him, if being with him was nothing but frustration and sex and trying to spite Ryou by resisting his concern and dating someone he didn’t like.

Worse, though, asking it could come off like Keith doesn’t trust Shiro. Like he doubts how Shiro feels about him or the fact that Shiro has sounded more certain of that than most other things they’ve had occasion to discuss lately. Keith could sound petulant or possessive, like he can’t let himself believe that Shiro really loves him if he also accepts that Shiro has loved other people in his life. Maybe it’s still a work-in-progress, believing that Shiro loves him, but that has nothing to do with whether or not Shiro’s loved Lotor or any other guys. If Shiro can accept that Keith loves him and Allura both, then it’s only fair for Keith to trust that loving Lotor doesn’t mean Shiro can’t love Keith.

Finally, Keith finds a question that he can work with. He rubs his foot against Shiro’s shin and asks him, “Number five: what made you change your musical style so much? I mean, you went from sad, solo acoustic numbers to playing in a punk band? And, ‘When You’re Away’ sounds more like your old stuff than some of your other songs, but even that one…” Keith rolls his eyes more at himself than anybody else, and lets them slip shut. It doesn’t clear his head as well as it could, but at least it gets him through saying, “I don’t know all the right music lingo, but it’s really different from the sound you used to have?”

By the time Keith opens his eyes again, Shiro still hasn’t said anything. He’s leaning his head back and drumming his fingers on the mattress, though. Not moping or melancholy, but simply thinking before trying to give Keith an answer.

“That’s… not a question I saw coming?” he admits to the ceiling. “Which isn’t bad? I just didn’t think about it beforehand…”

Keith nods. “Take as long as you need.”

Since Shiro isn’t looking at him yet, Keith lets himself smirk down at Shiro’s comforter. Maybe it isn’t much to feel pleased with himself about, and maybe letting Shiro consider things for so long is keeping them from making progress — but Keith managed to surprise Shiro. He pulled out a question that Shiro legitimately didn’t count on him to ask, which means that he can keep Shiro on his toes. Shiro’s not the only one of them who can catch the other off his guard.

“I don’t think it was any one thing in particular?” Shiro finally says. Dragging his eyes down from the ceiling, he can’t let them rest on Keith, but more than anything else, it spells out how much he’s thinking about this question. “On one hand, it was luck of the draw? Being around Pidge and the guys, having people I could actually be in a band with… Circumstances shook out in a way where we all… Hunk and Lance needed a new lead guitarist because their old one quit. And they needed a new roommate. Pidge wanted to play with more people and Matt knew the guys, so she joined up with them before I did. I was trying to work on solo acoustic stuff, but couldn’t really get the new songs how I wanted. Lance already knew me from my old channel—”

“Are you _joking_?” Keith splutters. He curls in on himself in the face of Shiro shaking his head and blinking so bemusedly.

“No, Lance used to _love_ my old stuff,” he explains. “It… Actually, it was kind of awkward, at first? He calls it his, ‘old fanboy crush’ on me. Which sums it up pretty well. And he wasn’t trying to be too much of a handful, but…” A shrug and a limp, inscrutable expression, with Shiro’s lips looking like they want to tie themselves in knots. “Lance usually isn’t _trying_ to be a handful. Plus, I had to learn where a lot of my new limits and boundaries were, and that I couldn’t just act the way I always had and expect it to work… And it could be really weird? The way he was so excited to get to know me in any capacity and still seemed to look up to me when I mostly felt like… Well, like kind of a broken mess?”

“I mean, I can’t blame him for ever having a crush on you,” Keith says, because he needs to say something, even if the first thing his mouth comes up with for him kind of sucks. “Sorta glad that I never openly accused him of, I don’t know… Only appreciating your music if it sounded like the stuff that _he_ wanted it to be?”

“Yeah, that would’ve been incorrect.” Shiro chuckles a bit and nudges his knee against Keith’s foot. “Before he asked if I wanted to join the band, Lance was actually… He was doing what you used to do sometimes? Listening to some of my acoustic solo stuff and giving me feedback? He was better at the music itself since he actually knew the lingo, but he’d only recently branched out into trying to write lyrics of his own, so you beat him there, and… Somehow, we got from me complaining about feeling creatively blocked to Lance going, ‘Hey, why don’t you try playing with me and Hunk and Pidge?’ So… I took him up on that.”

“That sorta answers the follow-up I was thinking about… It was gonna be, like ‘How did you even meet them’—”

“I knew Matt from Columbia College. He and Ryou didn’t really go out, but they fooled around a little after I introduced them. Matt did tech stuff for Hunk and Lance’s old band, and he knew Lance had a fanboy crush but didn’t believe that Matt really knew me. Pidge and Matt are related…” Shiro huffs. “Matt unwittingly got us all together, in a way?”

“But _your_ style…” Keith’s brow knots up without letting him consent or not. He makes himself look Shiro in the eye while asking, “What happened with _your_ style? And how? Or why? I wasn’t around to watch it evolve and I want to know.”

Shiro nods, but it still takes him another moment of thought before he can tell Keith, “A lot of factors went into that. Partly, it was me wanting to try something new… Partly, it came out of collaborating with Pidge and the guys… All of us building off each other’s work, learning from each other, getting new ideas from each other… But Ulaz also had a suggestion that kind of helped me expand my horizons…”

He goes silent, staring down at his lion. Shiro only picks up again when Keith presses the side of his foot into Shiro’s thigh: “I’d already been with the band for a while. I’d been living here for a while, too. Ulaz was having some trouble with me about one particular point… Because I didn’t want to _admit_ that I can be pretty angry—”

“Not without _reason_ , though,” Keith points out. “You aren’t a ticking time-bomb or anything…”

“Ulaz wasn’t saying that I was, not really…”

Whatever that, _“not really”_ is supposed to mean, Shiro sets his lion down and scoots closer to Keith. Picking the toy up again, he says, “Having reasons to be angry doesn’t mean much if you don’t deal with them. His point was more that I kept refusing to acknowledge how I was angry about… Well, about _several_ things, I guess… What Maurice had done to me. Losing you, losing my parents. Not fighting harder to keep from losing you. Things with Lotor — we’d had our first round of breaking up and getting back together, and he got it in his head that I was cheating on him because I didn’t want to do BDSM anything with him and wouldn’t tell him why—”

“How in the fuck does that add up to _cheating_?”

“It was only one part of the puzzle. The other part was that I had my meetings on Tuesdays and Fridays, and Lotor didn’t believe I didn’t have some guy on the side…” Shiro huffs and angles himself so his thigh and knee rub against Keith’s calf. “He had to follow me to one before he got it through his head that, ‘I go to Alcoholics Anonymous meetings on Tuesday nights from seven to nine’ meant exactly what I said… He was sorry, afterward. More or less. Anyway, I hated that he pulled this stunt and wouldn’t listen to me, but I kind of understood why he felt that way… His Mother is an emotionally frigid high-functioning alcoholic. His Father enables her and always acts like a character out of some Greek tragedy. Neither of them’s ever supported their son in much of anything, they only had him out of obligation to their families’ legacies… The best parental figures in Lotor’s life were an old _au pair_ and one professor from his prep school…”

“And because you’re _you_ — meaning compassionate, hopeful for other people, someone who always wants to help…” Keith tries to smile at Shiro, because he doesn’t want this to sound harsh or too judgmental. In all likelihood, he isn’t managing this very well, but at least Shiro seems ready to hear whatever Keith might say. “Because you’re like that and you understood why he acted like that, you were angry with Lotor for thinking you would cheat on him? But didn’t think you were _allowed_ to feel that? Because, I don’t know, his pain was understandable, so you felt like yours had no right to exist?”

Shiro sighs and nods, but says nothing.

“You used to do that in Chicago, too.” Not that this was the original point of today’s exercise, but if they’re really supposed to be getting more things out in the open, then shouldn’t it count? “And yeah, a lot of the time, it was you making excuses for Maurice when he was hurting you or when he treated you like trash. Like, ‘Oh, he’s been really stressed about this big case, his Mother’s been sick, I wasn’t trying to be such a brat but I can see why he felt like I was’—”

“Somehow, I don’t feel like that’s all you have in mind—”

“You did it to yourself with _me_ , too. Or anyway, I felt like you did…” Trying to meet Shiro’s gaze is the least Keith can do. Except something glistens over his beautiful gray eyes, and it feels like getting kicked in the stomach. It feels like Keith’s only wearing his underwear and got locked outside in the freezing rain. He balls a hand up in Shiro’s sheets, telling himself to keep going and explain himself, if he’s going to open up like this.

“Like, after the blizzard incident? It was like, ‘Why isn’t Shiro pissed at me for saying he was that kind of guy’—”

“Because I was _worried about you_ ,” Shiro says, so gently that it makes Keith flinch. “I didn’t even think you were saying anything about me or what you thought of me. Yeah, at first, I felt like maybe I’d done something to hurt you? Then you admitted that I hadn’t done anything to make you feel like I expected that from you and I knew it _wasn’t about me_. I thought something must’ve happened since we’d last seen each other, like you’d gotten used to people not wanting you around—”

“I was used to that before I ever met you, Kashi.”

God, could Keith’s voice pick a worse time to quiver like it wants to break into a million pieces?

How he soldiers on is beyond him, but he manages to say, “Thinking of sex as currency… I don’t know, I guess it can happen when you think a girl you like is really into you at junior prom. Then you fumble around with each other for a few minutes and you want to be nice to her after but she has to go knock it out with someone else so she can win a bet with her friend. Or when the closet-case you’re tutoring refuses to pay you for the work, except you sometimes suck each other’s dicks or grind on each other when his parents aren’t home. Or you take what you learned from him and use it to buy your passage up to Chicago…”

Shiro rests a hand over Keith’s shin. “I’m sorry that happened to you—”

“I thought people enjoying sex was more of a lie than Santa, the Tooth Fairy, and whitewashed, homophobic Jesus. Something humanity made up because you can give yourself an orgasm without going to that much trouble, so our species would’ve died off without all of the, ‘Sex is good, sex is fun’ stuff you get in movies and pop music, books like _Lady Chatterley’s Lover_ and _The Joy of Gay Sex_ , the Bible’s Song of Solomon…” Keith sighs and lets Shiro rub at his leg in silence for a moment. “…Then I had sex with you. Did I ever tell…”

Shiro’s wide-eyed blush seems to answer that question before Keith gets the whole thing out. But Shiro slowly shakes his head as well, in case Keith needs any further confirmation that no, he definitely did not get quite so on-the-nose about how much it meant to him that Shiro made their first time sleeping together actually enjoyable, that he’d paid so much attention to Keith’s needs and desires, to his boundaries and his comfort…

“For what it’s worth, I didn’t feel like I was in love with you yet, so you didn’t miss anything in _that_ regard…” That probably isn’t worth very much, though, so Keith adds, “Still, even platonic, ‘just friends who trust each other, screwing around’ sex with you was more fun than I thought I’d ever have in bed with anybody… Still completely changed my outlook on sex… I mean, incidents like the last time you let me top notwithstanding, that time was miserable for other reasons…”

“So…” Shiro’s cheeks twinge a brighter shade of pink. “How d’you feel about sex _now_?”

“More comfortable talking frank about it than _you_ , but that’s… Not really what you’re asking?” Keith blows at the stray clump of hair that droops over his eye. It refuses to budge. “Which was funny to me back then, too, though? Because you were fine talking about your trashy erotica. Maybe you got kind of purple prosey about it, but you _could_ talk about it. And you could sit at breakfast with me and Mark, and talk about what you did with how many guys the night before like you were rattling off the scores from a stupid baseball game.”

Keith huffs, batting his leg against Shiro’s. “Then you’d get dodgy about Maurice and forget half your vocabulary about me.”

“Because I can talk frankly about sex just fine when it doesn’t _mean anything_ to me.” The way Shiro’s blushing, he’s starting to look like one of his strawberries all over again, and he can’t look Keith in the eye as he admits, “When I get… _like this_? It means… Sex with you makes me — that is, talking about it is — it’s… Sex with you was more than just a good time to me, okay? Sure, it was fun, too, but…”

He squeezes Keith’s shin. “There were other reasons I clammed up about Maurice. With you, though… Even before I fell in love with you, our sex meant something more to me than only fun. Which was embarrassing but I didn’t know why. It was _terrifying_ but for deeper reasons than, ‘Oh God, Maurice can never find out about this.’ And of course I _liked_ it or I wouldn’t’ve kept sleeping with you — I actually felt comfortable and safe enough with you to just tell you when I wasn’t in the mood, which is _still_ a huge deal for me — but…”

Finally, he drags his eyes back up to Keith’s. Shiro’s shoulders tense and hunch over like a cat’s as he fails to hold Keith’s gaze. “Being with you felt… Some of the less-fun times aside, it felt good, and fun, and warm, and soft even when it was hard… It felt _real_ , and I wish I had a better word than that… Looking back on it, most of the times when sex with you wasn’t fun, or wasn’t as fun as it could’ve been? I was pretending everything was fine. Or I was acting like another version of me… I was trying too hard to block out everything else that was going on…”

Nodding, Shiro pushes his white fringe back off his face. His expression trembles like a violin string as he says, “But at its best? Sex with you felt like I could be myself. So, I’d let myself indulge in that feeling, and that would scare me. Because I felt like, ‘Why can’t I be better for him. Why can’t I put the simpering, pretty boy burnout away and be the guy who Keith _really_ deserves. Even if we aren’t in love, he’s trusting me and who I really am is terrible, I’ll only let him down if he has to deal with that any more than he already does’…”

“I _did_ want you to be better,” Keith says when Shiro’s been quiet for long enough that Keith’s insides start twisting themselves into Gordian knots. “But I only wanted that in the sense that… I wanted you to feel better. I didn’t want you hurting yourself. I didn’t really get why you did it, just that you were suffering and I wanted better for you. It was about how you were hurting, not about you being _wrong_ or… Anything like that?”

“I know. I didn’t appreciate it at the time, not as much as I should have, but…” The white fringe flops over his eye again. This time, Shiro holds it in place after pushing it back, and he makes himself look Keith in the eye. “I probably would’ve died without you. There were so many ways it could’ve happened, and so many times when I wished it would have… Except for you. Because I didn’t want want you to care about me when you deserved better? But even thinking that you’d never be in love with me, I knew you cared, and I didn’t want to be yet another person who left you, or who gave up on you—”

“You _weren’t_ ,” Keith snaps. He can’t lunge from his slouched position, not effectively and not while holding a half-empty, increasingly lukewarm mug of over-steeping tea. But he puts it back on the bedside table and tries to grab for Shiro’s wrist instead.

Shiro’s brow is furrowed and his eyes look like he could finally start crying. But at least he is looking at Keith.

“You. _Did not_. Give up on me,” Keith insists, squeezing Shiro’s wrist. “Even in that breakup letter, you didn’t. I _thought_ that you’d left me, but _I. was. **wrong**_. Whose fault did we agree that was? I don’t remember saying it was either of ours—”

“ _Maurice’s_ ,” Shiro huffs, not impatiently, but with a distinct edge like, _I have no idea where you think you’re going with this, Keith_.

“If you feel like I saved you—”

“You _did_. Maybe not at the end, when I got away from him, but—”

“That’s fine, you can feel that way. I don’t feel like I saved you from anything—”

“But even without you _there_ , sometimes thinking about you made enduring it easier—”

“But you don’t _owe me_ anything for that, _okay_? For any of it.” Keith’s hand curls tighter around Shiro’s wrist, as if this will make Keith’s point any clearer. “And you don’t have to beat yourself up about not being well back then, just… I love you. You don’t have to thank me for that or… I don’t know, whatever?”

This would probably be a more effective speech if Keith could rouse people in the same way Shiro can. Or if he had a better handle on verbalizing things in conversation. Or if a lot of things about him were different. Shiro nods like he’s getting the intended point, though, and for now, that’s good enough for Keith.

“You don’t have to berate yourself for not _saving_ me,” Shiro tells him. “There was only so much you could do. I was borderline noncompliant. Especially since I wanted you to stay… But some part of me also wanted you to realize how much better you deserved and choose to leave.”

“That _isn’t_ going to happen.”

“You can’t promise that.” The hold Keith has on his wrist makes scooting closer awkward, but Shiro manages it all the same. “I’m not saying you don’t believe it, or that I’m having doubts, it’s just… Something I learned in rehab and with Ulaz. Nobody knows the future, so you can’t make promises like that. It’s the same as how I can promise that I will keep working on my sobriety, but can’t promise that I won’t ever fall off the wagon again.”

“Okay, _fine_ ,” Keith huffs, barely fighting off the impulse to roll his eyes. “I can’t promise that your irrational fear of me deciding that I deserve better won’t come true. But I _can_ promise you that there are only _three_ people in the entire _world_ who I’m certain that I love. One of them left me and said that she’d come back, but I haven’t seen her since I was six. One of them is having dinner with her girlfriend and might be getting in another academic flame war with this asshole from one of her classes.

“And the third one…” Keith squeezes Shiro’s wrist and stares at him, dead-on. “He’s stronger than he realizes, more hopeful than anyone else I know, and kinder than I know what to do with. Whether he believes it or not, he _never_ gave up on me. He’s sitting right here with me, and right now? He’s getting called out. Because he’s kinda making me feel like he doesn’t want to believe that, whether I can make promises about the future or not, _I don’t want to lose him again either_.”

“I _do_ believe you, just…” Shiro squirms and tries to tug his arm free. “Your grip’s getting really uncomfortable? _Please_?”

“…Oh.” Mumbling apologies, Keith lets go. “I didn’t mean to do that… Are you okay?”

Alternately rubbing at and rotating his wrist, Shiro nods. “Nothing damaged — it wasn’t even hurting yet, but… Uncomfortable, definitely.” He shrugs and tries to give Keith a smile. “I thought you said you’d been skipping the gym?”

“I _have_ been, okay? Sometimes, _thinking_ about it gets exhausting, I just… Guess I don’t know my own strength, either.”

Which makes Keith want to rub Pidge’s face in how he isn’t Shiro’s Megara after all — but that can come later, if at all.

“That was beautiful, though. What you were saying.” Shiro gets his smile right, this time. It might be small, but at least it’s genuine. “And I’m sorry? For making you feel like I didn’t want to listen to you, I mean… That wasn’t what I intended, but I don’t think you’re wrong for seeing subtext like that. Not only in light of my prior offenses, here.”

“I’m sorry for grabbing you like that… For losing control and hurting you…”

“You didn’t hurt me. I asked you to stop before it got that far, and you _listened_.” Shiro nudges himself closer, though with enough distance for him and Keith to look at each other comfortably. “But, uh… We were going somewhere else with this, weren’t we?”

“Pretty sure we got here because you asked me about sex…” Keith picks up his mug again and polishes off the rest of his tea. Leaning his head back, he says, “If it matters, I haven’t had sex with anybody since July. I always tell myself, ‘Oh yeah, I could go out and get laid if I want to, but I don’t feel like it’? But after you, I didn’t sleep with anybody until Allura. After she and I broke up, I didn’t really want to go out with anyone… I tried a few times, but didn’t really meet anybody I liked that much? And I said I wasn’t going to fuck on the first date and never call back after the first time, but… Well?

“Then I did exactly that to Regris this past summer. He’s in my department at school, Kolivan’s husband’s TA. I already knew I like him when he asked me out. We had a nice time and all, but…” A shrug and a rueful huff. “I was house-and-dog-sitting while Antok and Kolivan went out of town. Told myself I wasn’t calling Regris back because I was busy. But then I wasn’t anymore and I still didn’t call him back. Felt like, ‘What’s the point, he’s gonna realize that I’m broken and want out eventually anyway, so why bother.’”

“Thank you for sharing that,” Shiro says, caressing Keith’s knee. “But it isn’t what I really asked.”

“I was building up to it? Kind of?” Shoving his hair back off his face, Keith tries to sit up straighter, if only because this position’s starting to make his back hurt. “I mean, I don’t like just having random casual sex? I’m fine with _talking_ about it, but… I don’t know, Allura’s shared some parts of Altean culture with me? And at first, I thought some of their ideas about sex sounded like cheesy hippie garbage about the healing power of love?

“They aren’t, though,” he says softly. “I mean, some of them are. But some of the others use the ideas I like to make some pretty questionable arguments. Or outright exploitative-sounding ones — there was one Altean poet and political theorist in the mid-nineteenth century who used some of their cultural ideas about sexuality to justify colonialism and imperialism, so… Yeah, it’s not like Altean ideals are always _right_? Either way, my Altean isn’t great so I’m usually reading texts in translation or asking Allura for help…”

Choking back a sigh, Keith lays a hand on top of the one Shiro still has on his knee. “I like the ideas about sex being special? Not in a restrictive or overly prescriptivist way, but… Sex always has some degree of intimacy, vulnerability, and trust. Some kind of connection happens, even if it’s brief. Even if you’re sleeping with someone you don’t know or don’t know that well. In the Altean ideas that I like, even casual sex can be a unique experience, a unique kind of contact with another person, a way of knowing someone else that’s unlike any other. Nothing to be ashamed of because there’s nothing _bad_ about it…”

He wriggles his hand underneath of Shiro’s and laces their fingers together. “But something that powerful? I feel like I should only go after it when I’m _really_ certain of what I want. It could hurt me or someone else… Even this isn’t foolproof? I was sure that I wanted to sleep with Regris, but not of anything else with him.”

Squeezing Shiro’s hand, Keith tells him, “I’m certain with you. I wasn’t at first? But I am, now…”

That makes Shiro blush again, all pink and soft and giving Keith a fond look like Shiro can’t even believe he’s so lucky. He tries to say something, and knowing Shiro, he wants it to be clever and poignant and emotional and sweet. But in the end, all he does is kiss the back of Keith’s hand — and smirks playfully when that gets a blush out of Keith.

“Ready for question six?” Keith waits for Shiro to nod his permission, then asks, “What’s the deal with oatmeal now? I mean, it used to be one of the things you’d actually eat? I thought it was safe… And not for nothing? Not that I don’t love you? But you’re a _menace_ in the kitchen and oatmeal’s one of the only things I trust you to make by yourself?”

“Yeah, that’s… Long story short: Maurice.” Shiro sighs. Shuffling around, he nudges Keith’s legs apart, then lies down with the black lion on his stomach and his head in Keith’s lap. He explains, “Being stuck in the middle of a possessive fight between your abuser and your eating disorder is… pretty high on the list of things that I’d never wish on anybody. When Maurice tightened the screws, I took it out on myself. So, he’d tighten them more and I’d restrict harder, or purge more often — as often as I could get away with…”

He swallows thickly, probably at the weak, whimpering noise that teeters out of Keith’s throat. Wrinkling his brow up at Keith, Shiro swears to him, “I’m doing better now. Not doing perfectly, not by a long-shot, but… I have better ways of dealing with those feelings now. And I know how to acknowledge them better, so they can actually get dealt with—”

“I know, and that’s _so good_? And I’m happy for you, I am…” Brushing the backs of his fingers down Shiro’s cheek, Keith whispers, “I just hate that you have to work so hard to see yourself like I see you… Or like Ryou sees you, or Pidge, or Lance, or anyone else who loves you…”

“Based on your essay, Keith? I think I could see Ulaz eight times a week, go to more meetings than I already do, and become the most emotionally healthy Shiro possible — and I still wouldn’t love myself even _half_ as much as you love me.” He catches Keith’s fingers with another kiss, but he doesn’t smile when he settles back into Keith’s lap. “Anyway, it’s not an eating disorder thing, me and oatmeal, now? But it’s still a messy thing, like…”

A gentle tap to his temple gets Shiro to lift his head. Once Keith has his legs crossed, Shiro settles down again and tells him, “Maurice hit this one point with me, or with fighting my disorder for who got possession of me. He didn’t appreciate having to share me with my own self-abuse… I had to get up with him and Haxus every morning — or one of them anyway, if the other got called to work early — because they didn’t trust that I’d eat at least one decent meal every day without them watching me… Unless I wanted to take whatever they gave me, which I didn’t, because I already had to do that about lunch and usually dinner? Then I was only allowed to make certain things, so I didn’t have much in the way of choice? Oatmeal was the easiest thing to make for myself, then choke down with them looming over me. These days…”

Closing his eyes, Shiro nuzzles at Keith’s leg. “I’d rather eat it and risk feeling sick than let myself skip a meal?” he says. “If I have any other option, though, I’d rather not try oatmeal? It snuck up on me slowly, but now, it just drags me back to sitting at Maurice’s kitchen counter… Watching him paw through my phone and worrying he might decide I’d been talking about forbidden topics with Ryou or contacting you in secret… Hoping he wouldn’t want to kiss me before he left… Hoping I could fake like I didn’t mind if he did…”

For all it sounds like he could go on, Shiro only shrugs. Keith’s follow-up question only makes him rub his cheek against Keith’s leg again.

“You’re helping by listening and trying to understand as much as you can,” Shiro tells him, so earnestly that it makes Keith’s heart stutter for a moment. His tone wants to leave no room for Keith to dispute what Shiro’s saying. “Anything more than that can change daily, but… Being here is helping. Even if you don’t feel like you’re doing much, even if you feel like you should be doing more, or like you want to? Just having you back means the world to me.”

“I love you too,” says Keith.

Resting one hand around Shiro’s cheek, he combs the other one’s fingers through Shiro’s bangs. Looking down at Shiro, watching him close his eyes and nuzzle at Keith’s palm, part of Keith wants to call this game off right now. Any semblance of contentment isn’t real and it can’t be. Shiro’s breathing is too measured for that, too controlled. Whether or not Shiro minds Keith’s lack of rhythm, Keith bites his own lip and cringes any time he feels like he’s fucking up at brushing Shiro’s bangs _just right_. Every motion feels like it’s out-of-synch with Shiro, and that feels like Keith’s playing something so dangerous that it doesn’t deserve to be called a game. Like he’s somehow at risk of upsetting Shiro because even trying to comfort someone he loves can’t make Keith better at keeping tempo with anything.

With a soft huff, Shiro noses at Keith’s palm. “Question seven?”

Keith doesn’t even need to think about it: “How did you get away from Maurice?”

“Seized an opportune moment,” Shiro mutters. He takes a deep breath and makes himself look up at Keith again. “Maurice’s Mother’s birthday. He and Haxus took her to St. Louis. Haxus tried to tell him they shouldn’t leave me on my own, but I made him trust me enough for that… Once they were gone, I sent Mark their address. Most of my things were in storage already. I packed up everything that wasn’t. Mark came and got me. Ryou flew into Minneapolis and met us at this middle-of-nowhere motel. Kira and Aunt Satomi got there with their van a few days later…”

“So they could get your stuff moved while you were in rehab?”

“That wasn’t the official plan, but… They were hoping I’d agree to that, yeah.”

“Which you obviously did…”

“Not without being stubborn about it, first. There were outpatient programs that I could’ve tried, instead of checking in somewhere. Maybe if I’d put in more work to research them, we would’ve taken that approach, but…” Shiro quirks his shoulders without quite shrugging. “Aunt Satomi thought I was only bringing them up so I could pull another stunt like what I used to do with Dr. Hall. Pretending to cooperate so people would get off my back without actually doing any of the work on myself that I needed to do… In retrospect, she wasn’t wrong.”

“But what finally happened to make you leave Maurice?” Keith tries to say it as gently as he can, because this follow-up could too easily come off like he’s judging Shiro or worse, condemning him. “Was it any one thing, or…?”

“Several things built up over time, but…” Shiro sighs. “I was a wreck, physically _and_ emotionally. I knew my life wasn’t really mine if I stayed with him. I wanted… How it happened wasn’t really the best…” He rests his cheek more heavily on Keith’s palm. “I still didn’t believe that I was an addict, or that I had an actual eating disorder. But in a way, those problems helped save me from Maurice. I didn’t feel like I had any choice or agency with him. Maybe it wasn’t _much_ better, feeling like, ‘I can’t eat now because I just can’t, I don’t deserve that,’ or, ‘I have to take this kind of dosage or drink that much or else I might get sick’…”

_You’re leaving something out_ , Keith hates himself for thinking. How can he even feel anything like that when Shiro’s baring his soul like this? Opening up about this whole ordeal must be hard enough without Keith ruining everything by calling Shiro’s honesty into question. Nothing about him seems like he’s lying, and Keith has no evidence that Shiro is leaving anything out. Only an instinct that could easily be _wrong_.

As Keith fights back a noise that’s building in his throat, Shiro tells him, “I got around to picking recovery eventually… But at first, I was picking my own self-abuse over getting abused by Maurice… Sorry, I know it’s probably…” He closes his eyes again, turning his face away from Keith’s hand and toward his leg. “I feel like I should have a better story for you? Like you, I don’t know… I feel like you would’ve wanted me to be braver? Like I should’ve wanted to get healthy right off the bat? Instead of being so desperate and broken and _pathetic_ that I—”

“I don’t _care_ about that!” Trying to steady himself so he won’t keep snapping, Keith drops a hand to Shiro’s shoulder. “You got out, Kashi. That means more to me than _how_ you did it. And you _did_ choose getting better, even if it wasn’t at first. You _aren’t_ broken, or pathetic, or any of that—”

“It was a miracle I was alive, I _knew_ I needed help, but I still didn’t want to go to rehab—”

“What changed your mind about that?” So they’re clear about this, Keith add, “Also, question eight.”

Although Shiro nods, he still needs moment to think before he can tell Keith, “At the time, I thought it was all on Ryou. Like, ‘My brother says he wants me to go. He’s the twin who has any common sense and this ordeal has been hard enough on him, no thanks to me. I owe him some cooperation about this. Especially since he doesn’t _have_ to take me in right now’—”

“As if he _wouldn’t_ have—”

“ _Ryou_ wouldn’t have left me out there on my own, no. But plenty of the people in rehab or at meetings… They’ve had family members put them out for being gay, or bi, or trans. They’ve had family give up on them because they were addicts…” Glancing up at Keith again, Shiro clarifies, “I picked my home meeting groups _because_ they’re at the LGBTQ community center. And I went to an LGBTQ-exclusive clinic, when I checked in. I had to fight for that — or, well. It wasn’t really a _fight_? But I had to prove that I was making the choice with _recovery_ in mind?”

Keith’s nose scrunches up. “What else would you have had in mind? Did Satomi think you were trying to find a new boyfriend?”

“No, she didn’t. It was more about comparing the different programs and facilities, trying to find the one that _really_ fit what I needed. Which Satomi worried I wasn’t serious about because the big point I kept going on about was, ‘I don’t want to be the only gay person there. I don’t want to talk about what I’ve been through with people who might think _all_ same-gender relationships are like what mine’s been with Maurice.’”

“But that kind of comfort is _important_ , isn’t it?”

“She didn’t say it wasn’t. Only that she wanted me to consider more options first. Instead of being hasty and picking an LGBTQ clinic without really looking at its program.” With a huff, Shiro shuffles around and nudges his shoulders partly into Keith’s lap. The top of his head butts up against Keith’s stomach, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

Once he’s comfortable again, Shiro goes on, “Also, Aunt Satomi wanted me to go somewhere in California, so it’d be easier for her to visit. Which I didn’t appreciate at the time? It felt like, ‘Oh, I can’t pick somewhere I’d feel safer, but you’re allowed to push for California so you can keep tabs on me.’ But it was more that… Maurice hadn’t really let me keep in touch with her. When she met up with us in Minnesota, I hadn’t seen her since Christmas and I was even worse off than she’d guessed. She wanted to try and be more supportive. And she was scared—”

“Don’t blame her for that,” Keith mutters. “I don’t blame her, I mean.”

“Neither do I, whatever I said back then.” He shrugs, then adds, “Besides, she’d done more of her homework about the options. There was a Hazelden clinic she brought up. Or Promises, but Ryou tried to veto that one as soon as I said, ‘Isn’t that where Lindsay Lohan went.’ Plus, I thought they looked too ostentatious? Their information sounded like it was for an expensive resort, I couldn’t take it seriously. There was one place, and Aunt Satomi didn’t say, ‘Kashi, you should consider it because they have staff who are trained in dealing with eating disorders’? But I found out later, she kept that to herself because she wasn’t sure where the balance was between, ‘signs of a possible eating disorder’ and, ‘side-effects of abusing opiates.’”

Shiro takes a moment to get his breathing settled again. Can’t fault him for that — talking about these things more or less matter-of-factly has to be doing a number on his stress levels. But before Keith can point out that he’s getting wrapped up in context again, rather than answering the question, Shiro leans his cheek back into Keith’s palm and swears that he’s getting to the point.

“I thought I was only agreeing to rehab because Ryou was twisting my arm about it and I owed him some peace of mind?” he says. “But we had a _talk_ , the night before I checked in… It was just the two of us in our motel room, and Ryou asked about why I’d finally decided to get out and leave Maurice. I told him a lot of what I told you, but… Messier. More emotional. With less distance — it hadn’t even been a week yet and I was still jumping at every little thing because what if Maurice and Haxus had gotten home early, saw I wasn’t there, and found me again…”

A deep sigh, and Shiro all but buries his face in Keith’s hand. It might be a miracle that his voice isn’t muffled in Keith’s palm as he says, “Ryou asked me why I was okay with letting my pills have my agency when I’d just taken it back from Maurice. Good thing he didn’t expect a real answer at the time because I didn’t _have_ one… It didn’t stop me from being an obnoxious little pain-in-the-neck during intake or making him explain things better for the clinic’s staff, but…”

Keith nods and lets Shiro have a moment of silence. Of course he waived confidentiality to have his brother with him while checking into rehab. Maybe Keith hadn’t considered that possibility or given the intake much thought, but now that Shiro’s put it out there, Keith can’t see any other way it might’ve gone. Hell, Shiro let Dr. Hall talk to Ryou, even knowing that he spent most of their sessions lying his ass off and that she could’ve been telling Ryou that he wasn’t taking his therapy even remotely seriously. Of course Shiro dragged his heels through checking in, too. That would’ve been so like him, back then.

_It’s probably better I wasn’t with you after all_ , Keith doesn’t let himself say, only swallows it and lets it sit heavy in the pit of his stomach. No matter how much he wanted Shiro to get well back then, he probably would’ve thought it was hilarious that Shiro gave the intake staff Hell instead of letting them do their jobs. _And then I wouldn’t have understood, and you’d probably hate me now, and_ —

“What made you change your mind about therapy?” Keith blurts out. “Question nine.”

Shiro blinks up at him bemusedly, furrowing his brow. “Mostly the fact that it _helps_ , I guess?”

“But why are you so sure of that?” Keith twists his fingers up in Shiro’s white fringe, more for himself than for Shiro. “There were other options than rehab… There might’ve been other options than therapy… Why are you so sure that therapy is the answer?”

“Well, I don’t think that it’s _the_ answer, singular?” Shiro says carefully. “I don’t think there _is_ any one, single answer. Everyone has different needs, and not all therapists are created equal… I got lucky with Ulaz. But Slav? I don’t like him and I don’t know _what_ all he’s been through. I want him to keep his anti-therapy opinions to himself around me because it took so much to make me come around about it? But from the little bit I do know, his opinions come out of some horrible experiences with psychiatry and therapists that he’s had—”

“Like why I don’t trust them either?”

“Similar. He hates them more than you do, but…” Another quirk of the shoulders, and more than anything else, this one is simply tired. “As bad as your experiences with counselors and therapy have been? You didn’t get put through ECT after explicitly saying you didn’t want it.”

Noticing Keith’s frown of confusion, Shiro explains, “Electroconvulsive therapy. Electroshock.”

Keith balks. “People still _do that_?”

“Well, it’s fallen out of favor. Most doctors won’t even consider it unless someone hasn’t gotten any help out of any other form of treatment, but…” Nodding morosely, Shiro tells Keith, “That’s one of the few concrete details I know about what all happened to Slav. He got put through ECT when he was thirteen, then again at fifteen… He told his parents that he didn’t want it, tried to offer a ton of evidence on how it doesn’t always work, but…”

Keith slumps into the headboard again. He can barely manage more than a whisper to ask, “But what about you?”

“Therapy may not be perfect. But if nothing else, it’s helped pull me back from being an active suicide risk—”

“What does that mean, ‘an _active_ suicide risk’? Like, your liquid Vicodin cocktails, or…?”

Shiro shakes his head. “It was maybe a month before I left Maurice,” he tells Keith, eyes closed and voice so tight, it’s a wonder he manages to say anything at all. “I’d made different plans before that. I thought some of them could take Maurice down with me, somehow. But this one morning, over breakfast… I don’t know, I — I got this feeling like, ‘Killing myself is one of the only choices I have left anymore, he’s stolen almost everything else from me and anything he didn’t take, I ruined on my own, because maybe — what if he’s right about me after all’…”

For a brief moment, Keith thinks Shiro’s going to sigh again. But the noise he lets slip is halfway to a sob instead. His whole face scrunches up but nothing happens. When he opens his eyes, they’re damp, but he can’t make any tears come out.

“I’d tried to get away from him before that, back at the start of July? It wasn’t planned. But his response to his _fuck-toy_ feeling suicidal was, ‘You wouldn’t dare because you belong to me’…” Shiro shudders so hard that it makes Keith flinch. “I pushed him off. He hit a bookshelf. One of his trophies crashed onto his head and I ran. Got to the nearest El station, but it didn’t matter. My pass was in my wallet, which was back at his place, in my room.

“And he was fine. He thought the whole thing…” Shiro cringes, biting out, “ _Brought us closer_. Because I’d left him for dead. Because I’d showed _spirit_ in fighting him off. Because maybe I’d freaked when I thought I’d killed him, but I still wanted him to die. He said it made us the same, both monsters—”

“He was _hurting you_ ,” Keith cuts in, fingers tightening around Shiro’s shoulder. “Wanting him dead for that doesn’t make you a monster.”

Especially not when Keith would bet everything he has, short of Mom’s knife, that Shiro hated himself for having those thoughts back then. That he still hates himself for having them now, on some level, no matter how much help he’s gotten out of therapy. Whatever anger Shiro’s ever had inside him, however much he’s lashed out at anyone and tried to channel that anger into his music instead, he hasn’t relished in the idea of hurting people. He takes a deep breath like he’s getting ready to go on.

Except Keith squeezes his shoulder again, and all Shiro manages to do is whimper. Tears finally spill out as he ever-so-slightly lifts his head. Two trails, one flowing down each side of his face. Keith untangles his fingers from Shiro’s hair and drops that hand to his cheek. He turns into the contact, which is probably a good sign, but Keith can’t assume that. He has to prod Shiro with—

“D’you want to _Pink Flamingos_ out? It’s okay if you do.”

He expects a definite _yes_. But Shiro shakes his head _no_ and swears that he’s almost done.

“I know I’m not a monster. I still have to deal with feeling like that, but I’ve been working on it…” Sighing, he looks back up at Keith. “I was a _disaster_ when I got away from Maurice. When I got here out of rehab, I was a little better? Still fragile, still a wreck like I said before, but working on it? But I still didn’t… I still wasn’t… I wanted to feel happy that I was still here, and I wanted to be grateful that I hadn’t died because I _knew_ it was a miracle… But I still felt like maybe it would’ve been better for everybody if I _hadn’t_ made it… Matt and my new friends wouldn’t have to deal with my moods when I was learning my way around them… Ryou wouldn’t have had to take care of me or deal with how I’m not the brother he deserves and thinks I am… I wouldn’t be able to hurt another guy, the way I’d hurt you…”

Swallowing thickly and fighting not to let himself fake a smile, Shiro says, “I’m sorry, Keith. I’ve had to do a lot of work on that… But I don’t think I would’ve done nearly as well without therapy? Without Ulaz, and group, and people being patient with me about taking my meds…”

“Are you gonna try again?” Keith murmurs before he can make himself hold it in. “Suicide?”

Shiro pulls his smile back. It doesn’t go away, and it wobbles more than it was doing just a few seconds ago. But at least this smile looks like he means it. Wriggling away could mean so many things, but Shiro doesn’t give Keith any time to consider them. He’s sitting up before Keith can guess what Shiro’s plan might be, facing Keith with an expression like the rest of the universe could be crumbling around them and Shiro’s first concern would be making sure that Keith hears what he has to say. Taking a deep breath, he looks Keith square in the eye.

“I don’t want to die anymore,” he says. “Maybe I can’t make promises about what I will or won’t do. Maybe I can’t control everything or predict everything that could happen. Maybe I still think about it more often than I like, and maybe Ulaz is right that those intrusive thoughts might never entirely go away…”

Leaning in closer, Shiro gently curls a hand around Keith’s wrist. “But he also says that they aren’t _me_. No matter what kind of intrusive thoughts I have, I _never_ want to let myself get so far gone that I start wanting that… No matter how much of a struggle it is, no matter how hard I have to work… I don’t want to feel like that ever again, much less _act_ on those feelings… I don’t want to kill myself, Keith. I’m committed to keeping it that way.”

Keith nods, because his brain isn’t playing nicely with vocabulary and he has to let Shiro know he understands. He tries to start spitting something out, because he _should_ , because Shiro’s being so open with him now. True, that was the entire point of this — Shiro opening up about some things because he read Keith’s train-wreck of an uncomfortably open essay; Shiro telling Keith about some of the things he missed, whether because he wasn’t there with Shiro when they happened or because he let his own assumptions get in the way; Shiro confessing to some things, anything Keith wants to ask about, so they can exorcise old ghosts and move forward into something new together — but even so? Shiro deserves to get as good as he’s giving in this game, which means Keith ought to have something he can say right now.

But Keith still hasn’t gotten a single, coherent word out when he worms his hand out from under Shiro’s. He hesitates and feels like he’s shivering. Shiro blinks at him, and Keith nods again, which doesn’t answer whatever questions Shiro’s turning over in his head. He knots up his brow as Keith slithers his arms around his shoulders. He squeaks when Keith tugs him in as close as their legs will allow. The black lion topples to the floor with a soft _thump_ and on a deep breath, Keith can’t pick out any particular scents. Not Shiro’s coffee, or his tea, or the pomegranate body wash that he still uses. Not even his godawful Dr. Pepper lip-chap. But he’s here right now, with Keith, and that should mean more than anything. Probably, it should be enough and Keith shouldn’t need or want for anything else.

Keith nudges his forehead into Shiro’s, but it doesn’t help Shiro relax. Even with his cheeks flushing pink, his eyes stay wide and his shoulders, tense. Losing the personal space between them doesn’t help Keith find his words or make his tongue feel any less cemented to the roof of his mouth. But at least it reminds him that Shiro’s _real_ , and Shiro’s _here_ , and he isn’t completely full of shit about his recovery, he _can’t_ be, because he’s alive and Keith can’t feel nearly as much of Shiro’s collarbone as he could back in Chicago—

“Can…” Keith barely manages to croak. “I know what you said about promises. But can I ask for one? Please?”

“What is it?” Shiro says without nodding.

“ _Tell me_ if it starts getting bad for you again?” Keith doesn’t have much room left he can yank Shiro into, but he tightens his arms around Shiro’s shoulders anyway. His eyes sting and he clamps them shut. “Even if I can’t do anything to help but listen, even if you’re scared of what might happen, even if _I’m_ not doing so great either — I don’t _care_ , just…”

A mewling noise claws its way out of Keith’s mouth as he butts his forehead into Shiro’s. Tears flow over onto his cheeks.

“Guessing how you were doing was one of the worst parts back then,” he tells Shiro and hopes it sounds earnest and true, since Keith can’t take out the edge like his world might shatter based on Shiro’s answer. “Looking for clues, not trusting myself to know if they were real or what they meant or what I could do… Shiro. _Kashi_ , I just… Please don’t do that to me again, okay? Talk to me? Whatever else you can’t promise, can you give me this one? _Please_?”

“I can do that.” Shiro nods, then leaves his forehead resting against Keith’s. “And I will, Keith. I swear it.”

Keith only means to breathe out a, _“thank you.”_ But Shiro leans into it when Keith seals that promise with a kiss.

*** * ***

When they head back to the kitchen, Keith almost can’t believe the time he sees spelled on the microwave’s clock. Aside from how long it feels like they’ve been talking, it’s dark enough out the window that his brain says it should definitely be later.

With one hand wrapped up in the black lion’s tail and Shiro’s Xanax rattling around in his hoodie’s kangaroo pocket, Keith grumbles idly and digs around in the fridge. Pausing the game for a bit was a good idea, but he can’t shake off the feeling that it’s gotten late enough that he should feel guilty for making Hunk and Lance wait to come home. Even if Shiro’s right about how they might not have gotten off from work yet, it _feels_ like they should be waiting up at Matt and Pidge’s place — which, in turn, feels completely idiotic. God, it isn’t like Keith’s new to the East Coast, at this point, or to the way that the days get shorter in fall and winter. One of those things has been around for Keith’s entire life, and this is his fourth year of dealing with the other one. Shouldn’t he be used to this by now?

“You’re not alone in that,” Shiro offers, putting the kettle again on again. “I mean, Lance always gets moodier, clingier, and a little bit more sensitive around this time of year. He’s done it every year since I met him. Hunk and Matt say he’s done it for as long as they can remember, and Hunk goes back to elementary school with Lance, so it really isn’t new. Lance _knows_ that, ‘seasonal affective disorder’ is a real thing and Ulaz has told him, ‘What you are describing sounds like S.A.D.’ more than once. But every single year, guess who’s _surprised_ when autumn shows up and he starts getting like that?”

“Lance was surprised that I thought he and Hunk were already dating. I get the feeling that his attention to detail is _incredibly_ selective.” Keith frowns at the contents of the fridge as his search apparently comes up fruitless. Groaning, he asks, “Do you guys have any soda that isn’t _diet_?”

Shiro shrugs and supposes that they might not, since the plan was for him to do the grocery shopping tomorrow. “Plus, Pidge, Matt, and Ryou are the ones who drink regular soda and they don’t live here. They’re over often enough, yeah, and Ryou has his own key, but _technically_ , they all have their own places—”

“But diet soda tastes like _plastic_ —”

“Hunk finds the taste of regular soda overwhelming. Lance thinks all the sugar makes him break out—”

“I don’t think that’s how acne _works_ —”

“And as for me…” Leaning against the counter, Shiro folds his arms over his chest. “I mean, yeah, it started as a calorie-counting thing? I thought that’s still what it was, so I started trying to break myself of it, but…” He shrugs and tells Keith, “After so long, I’m with Hunk. Regular soda tastes weird to me. Too sweet, but it doesn’t taste real unless you get the glass-bottled Coke that they import from Mexico. Except those taste _way_ too sugary for me? Maybe not as bad about that as bubble-tea, but still not a taste that I like?”

“You don’t have to justify anything to me,” Keith says, settling on a pouch of Capri Sun instead.

Strictly speaking, he isn’t sure how regular soda is too sugary for Hunk, Lance, and Shiro but apparently, Capri Sun _isn’t_? But whatever, it’s their fridge, not Keith’s. They should keep it stocked with the things that _they_ like having around, not worry about catering to an interloper who sometimes sleeps in Shiro’s bed and might possibly need a haircut.

Also, Keith doesn’t care how confusing this discrepancy might be. He is not wasting one of his remaining ten questions to interrogate Shiro about his and his bandmates’ tastes in beverages. For one thing, it’d be rude, more so than Keith’s usual standard and aimed at someone he doesn’t want to be rude to. For another thing though, and far more importantly, Keith has things of actual significance to ask about.

When Shiro joins him at the table with their refilled mugs, Keith gives him a moment to settle. He doesn’t plan on waiting until the tea is fully steeped again, but all the same, Shiro deserves a moment to breathe. Besides, as Keith slouches toward the table and puts his cheek in his palm, it occurs to him that he could sit right here all evening, watching Shiro, and batting his toes into Shiro’s ankle, and only moving if Shiro decides that he wants to go do something else.

Then, Keith could just as easily watch Shiro play his guitar, or lean on his shoulder while they’re both reading different things, or take a nap on the couch with his head in Shiro’s lap. Whatever they are right now — whatever they would call their relationship status if either of them had Facebook — Keith could do all of these things and more tonight, as long as Shiro wanted to let him. Hell, Keith wouldn’t even necessarily need to limit himself to idly playing footsie right now. He could, in theory, lean over and plant another kiss on Shiro right now, instead of toeing at his ankle and mussing up the black lion plushie’s mane. All as long as Shiro wanted that.

Judging from the way he grins and blushes as Keith rubs at his shin, Shiro might not mind some more kissing. But they have other things to get around to, first. With a sigh, Keith asks if Shiro’s ready, earning a smile and a nod of permission.

“Number eleven,” Keith says, sitting up straight again. “If the band ever makes it big, what d’you think is gonna happen?”

Shiro shrugs and shakes his head. “No idea. Not even a little bit. Even if I _could_ make promises about the future, I don’t think I’d know where to start… There are so many different factors that could be at play in any situation where that happened?”

“Okay, do you _want_ that to happen? In any way? Like, you could want to make it, but not Fall Out Boy or Green Day big?”

“I go back and forth on how I feel about that.” Slouching onto his elbows, Shiro blows at his white fringe. When it flops over his eye again, he tries to flip it back instead, which doesn’t work either. “I mean, sixteen-year-old Shiro would probably call me a sell-out for even thinking about that in any capacity? But sixteen-year-old Shiro had a self-loathing anxiety spiral over someone dedicating, ‘Baby Got Back’ to him at a Sadie Hawkins dance. And he lied about not knowing that George Michael was gay so the lacrosse team guys would let him off the hook for singing ‘Careless Whisper’ in the shower after practice. So, I feel pretty comfortable not listening to sixteen-year-old Shiro about this?”

“You were still completely crush-worthy at sixteen,” Keith points out, sliding the ball of his foot up to Shiro’s knee. “This isn’t the point, but… If you’re gonna talk down about yourself, then I’m just gonna remind you? Sixteen-year-old Shiro was also kind, no matter what cringeworthy stunts he ever pulled. He was brave enough to stand by his music when two people he loved wanted him to give it up. He got up every day and went to school knowing that he was gonna hear a ton of homophobic crap, even without being out to anybody but Ryou and Laura, and he didn’t let that stop him from doing his best at everything. He fake-dated Laura so her parents wouldn’t find out she was a lesbian. He stood up to his friends when they bullied other kids, especially Ryou—”

“He let them walk all over himself, though—”

“He was always patient with… I dunno, the scrawny, ill-tempered ragamuffin who followed him home for math—”

“Did…” Shiro snickers. “Did you seriously just call yourself a _ragamuffin_?”

“My old case-worker used to call me that affectionately sometimes, I don’t _know_ , Kashi, _Jesus_!” Keith huffs and drops his foot in Shiro’s lap. Folding his arms over his chest, he grumbles, “I was just saying. I know I wasn’t always easy to tutor, I _know_ I could be frustrating, but you never got mad at me for it? And when you were scared I might be about to say something homophobic when, actually, I was confused? Like, ‘How can you not be terrified about your Mom and Grandfather knowing that you’re gay?’ You didn’t _need_ to break things down for me, but you _did_ —”

“I think Ryou did more work explaining things than I did, but…” He drops a hand to squeeze Keith’s ankle. “I won’t say that I magically _knew_ you were bi or anything, because I didn’t. But you were scared in a way that usually means somebody did something to put that fear in you—”

“What happened to my foster cousin after Uncle Jim put him through reparative therapy, yeah—”

“So maybe I didn’t _need_ to do anything, but?” Shiro shrugs as if he genuinely isn’t getting why what he did merits any special acknowledgement. “I didn’t want you to be nervous around my parents or anything. And I thought that, y’know, if you _did_ end up being into other guys, then you should just know there’s nothing wrong with it?”

“I might not’ve accepted it about myself if not for you, okay?” Keith hunches in on himself and tries not to look at Shiro’s face. That soft, lovesick expression he’s wearing is weakening Keith’s resolve to stay firm about this. “Whether _you_ felt like it was special or not, it meant _so much_ to me. Do you have _any idea_ how much different my life would’ve been without you?”

“Yeah. You wouldn’t have gotten your heart broken by the drug addict you were in love with, because he loved you back but believed his only choices were never seeing you again or letting his abuser use his mistakes to get you sent to prison,” Shiro deadpans.

As if a crack like that isn’t troubling enough on its own, Shiro tries to chuckle. Because right, of course, literally anything about this situation is funny in any sense of the term. At least he knocks that off when Keith glares at him. Jerking his ankle back into his own personal space, Keith barely avoids kicking Shiro in the crotch. It would’ve sucked if he missed, but he doesn’t apologize for skirting that close to Shiro’s dick until Shiro says he’s sorry for the incredibly poor taste in that so-called joke.

“Without you, I might not have accepted that I’m bi,” he says, staring Shiro down to do it. “I might’ve died of exposure in Chicago when it started _really_ getting cold. I wouldn’t have gotten my GED. I would’ve _dreamed_ of going to community college, never mind a university — but I wouldn’t have believed I could ever really do it. So, I wouldn’t have come here. I wouldn’t have met Allura or Kolivan, or Shay, or Coran. I never would’ve read Kolivan’s books, I wouldn’t have believed I could _actually_ write anything, I wouldn’t have let myself care about anything more than surviving—”

“I think Heather would beg to differ, if we could ask her,” Shiro points out. “She was your friend before I was. You cared about protecting her from her father before I was even your algebra tutor.” He huffs, tucking the white fringe behind his ear. “I don’t want to discount anything you’re saying. But I don’t think it’s fair or accurate? Acting like you only cared about yourself until you met me. Maybe you _could_ be more self-centered with most people, but I think it was because you were used to being hurt and not having anyone who’d protect you. It was a learned pattern of behavior, not who you really are.”

Giving Keith a small, inexplicably fond smile, he says, “You were a fighter and an idealist without my influence.”

“But I didn’t really _believe_ in anything before I met you, just…” Keith doesn’t mean to mirror Shiro’s posture, but slumping onto his own elbows seems more comfortable than sitting up like an adult. “If I agree with you that I have good qualities on my own, will _you_ accept that you bring them out in me?”

Shiro nods, but what he says is, “I might want to discuss it more later. But for now, I suggest tabling it. Because I owe you an answer to the question you actually asked, and I feel like I’m stalling. Which isn’t fair on you at all.”

Once he has Keith’s agreement to those terms, Shiro tells him, “I stand by my old philosophy of making it, for the most part? It’s not about being famous to me. I just want the band’s music to reach people and affect them. Even one person is better than none, but the more, the better… Lance would love being a rockstar? Or at least, Lance _thinks_ that he would love being a rockstar. Reality may not work out exactly how he thinks it will. But for me…”

He bats his foot at Keith’s ankle and gives him an easy smile. “Making it big is a potential side-effect of what I really want, not the end in itself. If it ever happens, then I’ll accept that and figure out how to adapt. But if it doesn’t, then I’m not going to be upset.”

Before Keith can think of anything else to chime in with, Shiro adds, “Also, if the band _does_ ever make it big and you still want to be with me? Then I’ll do everything I can to make it work.”

“As long as no one tries to make me be your real housewife of wherever?” Keith says, “I’ll still want to be with you.”

“I wouldn’t dream of asking that of you. Besides…” Rubbing his toes against Keith’s shin, Shiro smirks playfully. “I like it when you get all hot-blooded and passionate about a project or a cause… When you throw yourself headlong into something that you care about… It’s beautiful. It’s inspiring. That fire… It’s always been one of the things I love best about you.”

“You’re a _nerd_ ,” Keith tells him, blushing and smiling down at Shiro’s lion. “Question twelve: what was going through your head that night when I came down to yell at you guys?”

“First, I was just exasperated with Pidge and Lance. Then, with myself for letting things go so late without even _noticing_ again — mostly for the, ‘not even noticing’ part.” Shiro sighs, pushing his white fringe back off his face again and toeing at Keith’s calf. “When you got there, I thought it might be you? But I couldn’t tell if it was wishful thinking or if I was exhausted… Then you said something that clicked, and sounded so much like you that it couldn’t be anybody but you — the thing about not even having a lawn to tell Lance to stay off of in the first place?”

“ _That’s_ what made you recognize me?”

“Your face and attitude did that more. What you said told Lance, though… It was so like you, and I… Yes and no?”

“But you still _asked_ if it was me—”

“Because of the chance for wishful thinking.” Shiro shrugs and sniffs at his tea. It must not be ready enough for him, though, since he moves right on, giving Keith a wobbly, tender smile. “I’d missed you so much, for so long. And there was so much I regretted from before, about how I treated you—”

“You were in a really bad place, though, and there was Maurice—”

“That doesn’t make what I did okay.” Shiro’s foot knocks into Keith’s as he drops it to the floor. He tries to keep his voice measured and even as he tells Keith, “Yes, he was responsible for some of it. Not all of it was my fault. But I _did_ screw up and do wrong by you in my own right… Part of working on this with Ulaz? Was admitting that I still _wished_ I’d see you again even when I felt like I wouldn’t. Trying to forgive myself because maybe I’d _never_ have another chance with you, and I had no idea what’d happened to you, just that you’d gone to school and I prayed that you were okay… It might’ve helped me if I’d talked about it more with my friends and Ryou? But I felt so close to letting go of that hope of ever seeing you, it seemed _impossible_ …”

_That_ smile curls up Shiro’s lips again, the one that he saves for Keith alone. His eyes threaten to mist over, but don’t make good on it. “Then, there you were,” he whispers. “Alive and in one piece and… Yeah, yelling at me, Pidge, and the guys, but I could understand why? And it didn’t even matter? Not as much as the fact that you were _here_ and it was _you_ —”

“Stop trying to make me blush,” Keith mumbles over the rim of his mug. “You’re _already_ winning that, okay?”

That makes Shiro chuckle, but there’s nothing malicious or ill-willed to it. “Sorry,” he says. “I just — I was kind of shocked that it was you. Shocked but happy. After the shock wore off, there was a lot of quietly berating myself because I’d spent so long thinking about what I’d do if I ever saw you again. What I’d tell you, or so many things… I almost forgot to talk to Ulaz about my Xanax that day? Because I was so wrapped up in how I’d sounded like an idiot, and hugged you out of nowhere when I _know_ how you can be about touching and hugging and having them sprung on you like I did, but I wasn’t even sure you were _real_ —”

“I thought I must’ve taken some of Rolo and Nyma’s NyQuil and passed out,” Keith offers with a sigh. “I mean, it’s like you said? ‘Never’ is supposedly a pretty permanent state. And I sure got the sentiment of, ‘never’ out of your, ‘I don’t know when I’ll be back so don’t wait for me, please go have a life, it’s what you deserve’—”

“Maurice would be so proud…” Shiro deadpans and cringes practically as soon as he spits it out. “Sorry, that was so… I wanted to try and lighten the mood, but… God, there’s no excuse for that, I’m so, _so_ sorry—”

“It’s more worrisome than upsetting,” Keith says and hopes it sounds sympathetic. “And you didn’t sound like an idiot to me.”

Thanking Keith for that, Shiro nods. “I still didn’t think you’d call, though. Or text. Or actually use my number—”

“I might not have, if Allura hadn’t started a text that sounded nothing like me—”

“Something else I need to thank her for, then. The question is how to do it.”

Keith presses on as if Shiro hasn’t cut in on him: “There was so much tied up in it? I still don’t get all of what I was feeling, but I mean…” He shrugs and slumps harder onto his elbows. “I didn’t think you’d really want me back in your life, I thought you were just being polite…”

“I didn’t think you’d come to our show,” Shiro reminds him. He waits for Keith’s permission before gently laying his hand over Keith’s fist. “You can’t beat yourself up about assuming the wrong thing without getting upset at me for doing that, too. Both of us have done it. Both of us can get better at it—”

“Why _did_ you assume that I wouldn’t come?” Keith interjects before giving his higher brain any time to protest about social niceties and respect. “Question thirteen. And I mean, I get part of it? Bars aren’t really my scene. You had no idea how I feel about you or what finding you meant to me. All of that, but…” Huffing, he tries to make himself look Shiro in the eye. When it makes his throat start itching like he’s about to die of thirst, Keith settles for looking at the bridge of Shiro’s nose. “Was that all you felt? Or was there something else?”

“Something else,” Shiro admits without seeming to think about it. “In the same vein, but…” He runs his fingers over the curve of his ear like he’s checking to make sure his white fringe hasn’t shaken itself loose. “I felt like you might’ve been, I don’t know… Not _coddling_ me, exactly? But telling me you’d think about coming even though you wouldn’t because I was such a disaster in Chicago and you didn’t want to upset me? And I thought you meant the, ‘I’ll think about it’? But also that you probably wouldn’t come because of how I’d hurt you—”

“That sounds more like, ‘Leading you on because I felt hurt and wanted to hurt you back’—”

“That’s not your style. Lashing out when you’re angry and hurting? Yes, but you always used to do it directly.” Squeezing Keith’s hand, Shiro tells him, “It didn’t cross my mind that you could’ve led me on deliberately like that. After how the night ended, I thought you hated me so much, you had to get wasted to even be around me—”

“I don’t hate you. I _never_ hated you. I got stupid, that was all—”

“Considering Lotor’s involvement, no one can hold that against you.” Shiro huffs and tries to smile. “I’d really like it if you wouldn’t hold that night against yourself, either. But I understand if it’s easier said than done.”

_Yeah, because nobody else can self-efface like you can, Kashi_ , Keith shoves down, because it’s massively unhelpful.

“Fourteen,” he says instead. “When did you first think you were falling for me?”

“When you brushed up your Christopher Marlowe.” Shiro answers so quickly that Keith can’t help frowning. But in response to that, all Shiro does is shrug. “The nights I spent with Maurice before that one? I didn’t think I’d said too much about you to him, much less given him reason to think I had romantic feelings for you — mostly because I didn’t think I felt anything but attraction and friendship. He disagreed. Kept asking if I was thinking about you when he thought my mind was wandering. Reminded me not to break my promise and fall in love with you. I couldn’t believe he got that from anything I’d said, but…”

Shiro’s toes brush against Keith’s ankle, tease like they might slide further up his leg, and settle down into something like a caress. He tells Keith, “I thought I knew how I felt about you? But then you gave me that recitation. And some part of me _wanted_ your heart to be in it for real? But most of me believed you’d never love a simpering, pretty boy burnout and why was I trying to twist your recitation and make it about myself? I managed to run from those feelings for a while more, but? It still felt like getting hit by a truck full of cotton candy and silly love songs.”

Which, as far as answers go, is more than good enough and Keith should be content. Instead, he asks, “Follow-up: when was the moment when you couldn’t run from your crush anymore? Or ignore it, or tune it out, or whatever?”

“You probably don’t remember it,” Shiro says and takes a drink of his tea.

“Are you _trying_ to test me?” Keith wrinkles his nose. “Or judge me, or… I dunno, am I completely misinterpreting your tone?”

“I’m not sure how you’re reading it, but…? My feelings are more resigned than anything, right now?” Shiro wraps both hands around his mug and slumps back in his seat. “It wasn’t any big event like a birthday or getting your GED scores. It was just one of those little moments that happen every day and don’t mean anything special until suddenly, they do.”

“So tell me which one it was anyway. Even if I don’t remember it, I want to know.”

Thinking it over, Shiro closes his eyes. It might be concerning, if not for him letting Keith know that he’s trying to recollect what was going on around his realization, at the time. Apparently, he has a perfect fix on the moment itself, but that’s not very helpful if he can’t place it in a way that Keith understands better. The way he idly jerks his head makes his black clutch of bangs droop over his eye and he huffs in palpable annoyance as he shoves it back behind his ear. His ankle bobs against Keith’s, but he doesn’t even seem to notice.

“It was a couple weeks before your GED scores came,” Shiro says, right in the nick of time to keep Keith from drifting off into his own thoughts. “You remember that one song I did? I got out a bunch of Dolly Parton because you liked her, and the song wasn’t exactly _country_? But it took a few hints from some of them, and it kind of wanted to be a ballad…” A huff and Shiro closes his eyes again, so he can summon up the lyrics: “ _‘They say this boy was raised by wolves, but I’ve got to disagree. He spits and growls, sure enough, then turns sweet when he’s with me’_ —”

“Mixed feelings about that song,” Keith mutters. “It was good, and I liked it? It was different from your usual speed, but you did it well. You told the story, and you usually did more with feelings — like, lyric poetry instead of narrative? But then it felt like you making excuses for Maurice, so that was like—”

“Wait, _what_?” Shiro splutters, color draining from his face. “That song was about _you_ —”

“Since _when_ —”

“Since _always_. I wrote it _for you_ —”

“Why wouldn’t you tell me if it was about me?”

“I thought it was _obvious_ , Keith! The boy in the song acts like there’s nothing more to him than anger and loneliness—”

“But you had lines in the song like, ‘He’s sweet with me’ and, ‘Nobody else knows him like I do.’” Keith nudges his mug aside and knots his fingers up in the black lion’s mane. “And you said stuff like that about Maurice _all the time_ … ‘He’s sweet to me, I swear. He had a rough day and I pushed him too hard but he’s really a good guy, he’d never _hurt me for real_ ’—”

“Duly noted,” Shiro bites out, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. He sounds like he’s trying to hold something back. “I didn’t even think about that, just… I thought the song was so clear about the boy _not_ being a monster and _not_ hurting anybody? And seriously, why else would I have dipped so heavily into the Dolly Parton well if the song wasn’t for _you_ —”

“Because she’s _amazing_? Because you were trying to write a _ballad_? I don’t know, because a lot of reasons—”

“I don’t disagree, but you love her more than I do, and it’s—” Shiro cuts himself off with a groan and lets his head loll back. Staring at the ceiling, he says, “I think we may have underestimated how badly the two of us have messed up communicating with each other…”

“I’m getting that, too.” Which probably sounds harsher than Keith wants, and definitely sounds worse than Shiro deserves right now. Grumbling under his breath, Keith flops onto the table, resting his chin on the lion’s tummy. Batting his foot at Shiro’s, he says, “But what does that song have to do with anything? You didn’t put in on your old channel ’til _after_ my scores came.”

“I was working on it when I had my, ‘Oh no, I have feelings for Keith’ epiphany,” Shiro explains. Taking a deep breath, he returns to slouching on his elbows. His white fringe slips loose but he doesn’t move to fix it. “We were in my room. We’d both had the day off from work. Mostly, you were reading. Sometimes, I didn’t think you were still paying attention until, out of nowhere, you said something about the lyrics sounding awkward and disingenuous—”

“Wasn’t it, ‘Bogus and affected’? ‘Too much like Dolly, not enough like _you_ ’?”

“Yes, exactly!” Shiro’s beaming grin is brief but it could light up this entire godforsaken city. “You said I was channeling her too much instead of letting my real self come through… There were a few awkward turns of phrase you pointed out… You tried to make me go out for lunch but I was wrapped up in working… Then you brought takeout back and I mostly ate so you wouldn’t worry, or so you’d worry less, but…”

Shiro nudges his ankle into Keith’s. “Come dinnertime, I was getting _so_ angry with myself and that song? Because it wasn’t coming together in a way I liked, but I couldn’t figure out why… I didn’t want to stop working? I knew you were right to say I needed to take some time, but I felt like I was _so close_ to finding what was missing, which meant I didn’t _want_ to stop… It was like, ‘I may be a simpering, pretty boy burnout. I may be basically useless. But maybe I’m not, except if I stop now, then that will prove how much I _am_ those things’…

“And then you kissed me.” Shiro sighs. His smile is on the small side, but unquestionably real. “You took my wrist, and kissed me, and told me that I’d have a clearer head after I took a break and had dinner with you already.”

“I remember,” Keith affirms. “I had to snap my fingers in your face to get you up.”

“Sorry, that’s…” Shiro’s cheeks twinge pink. “I was realizing I’d fallen for you. My brain completely whited out for a minute.”

“Okay, but fifteen? That thing you just called yourself…” Keith grinds his thumb along his finger, making himself look Shiro in the eye to ask, “‘Simpering, pretty boy burnout’? You’ve said it a few times, just… Did _you_ come up with that, or…?”

Shiro shakes his head, looking like he could go for a five-week nap. “Maurice used to say that about me. Never in front of anyone else, except maybe Haxus once or twice? Whenever I was getting on his nerves, however I was doing it… Or when he was upset about something else and taking it out on me…” A roll of the eyes and a soft huff. “Whenever he wanted to remind me of what he thought my place was. One of his favorite times to use it was, well… Trying to tell me not to fall in love with you. Telling me that I belonged to him.”

“But do you believe that about yourself?” Keith drops his cheek onto the lion. “Did you ever, do you still… Any of it?”

“It’s… a work-in-progress?” Shiro tells him. “Some days are better than others. Most of the time, no. At least, not at the forefront of my mind anymore… It’s more like the perpetual white noise of self-doubt.”

“Sixteen: why did you believe him when he said I would never love you?”

“Counter-question: are the rest of your questions _all_ about Maurice?”

“I don’t think so.” Keith takes a moment to count off questions in his head. “Two more about him, on top of this. And this one is less…” He grabs up his tea again. Drinking it doesn’t clear his head as much as he’d like, but it steadies him enough to explain, “The real question here is more like, ‘Did I do something to make you believe that, or was it all on him?’ So, it’s not really _about_ Maurice, not exactly?”

For all Shiro supposes that he can see Keith’s point, what he says next is, “Neither of those is the real answer, though. You didn’t do anything to make me feel like that — nothing I’d want to see you blamed for, at least? Not least because I didn’t help. Maurice fed into things, but all the feelings he preyed on… They were there before I even met him. Did he exacerbate things? Yes. But blaming him for the fact that I didn’t believe you’d ever love me… I can’t do that.” 

While Keith furrows his brow and silently gapes at him, Shiro throws back a long drink of tea. Ostensibly unperturbed about the expression that he’s getting, he tells Keith, “I can’t blame him because it wouldn’t address the real problem. I made the same mistake, thinking that I only drank and used like I did because of him and expecting rehab to be a tedious formality. Because I was away from him, so I could sweat out the detox, stick it out with group therapy for thirty days, and everything would be fine… Even worse? I had a few moments before checking in, where I realized that I got cravings for reasons that had nothing to do with Maurice. But I still wanted to blame everything on him, I wanted things to be more straightforward…”

Finally pushing his white fringe off his face again, Shiro shrugs. “It’s easy to say that Maurice messed with my head, which he did, and that this is the only reason I didn’t believe you would ever love me back. I’m not going to pretend that he didn’t magnify the issue tenfold, because he did. But it goes deeper than that. How much I don’t really… My natural inclination is not to like myself very much. And I don’t… I can’t think of anything that happened to start it? I can tell you several things that made it worse. But I can’t remember ever being any different.”

While his mind snarls, _If you make any excuses for your Grandfather Namesake and how he used to treat you, Kashi? I am going to scream bloody murder. I will scream so loud, he can hear me in the afterlife and know that it’s about him_ , Keith only hums pensively and tries to keep his face as neutral as possible.

All it earns him is a curiously tilted head and a flat expression. “Sitting on something?”

Keith tells him, “Only that I can think of a few possible inciting incidents. One of them was more ill-tempered than I am.”

Shiro’s eyebrow leaps up, threatening to arch straight off his forehead. After a long moment, Shiro says, “Yes, some of Grandfather Shirogane’s behaviors and treatment of me helped fuel my problems. But he hadn’t disapproved of me in any meaningful way when Ryou and I were kids. Before puberty made me the so-called, ‘ _hot_ twin’ and left him, ‘the _chubby_ twin’—”

Shiro makes quotation marks with his fingers and Keith snorts. He shouldn’t have, considering what they’re talking about — but at least it gets a brief smile out of Shiro, rather than making him get upset. Wearing a playful smirk, he kicks gently at Keith’s ankle.

“As I was _saying_?” Shiro takes a deep breath to center himself again. “Ryou never wanted to do the, ‘twins swapping places with each other’ thing when we were kids. It was always me. I thought it was just in fun at the time, but I’ve realized with Ulaz? I was that young and I wanted so badly to be Ryou instead of myself. Our Grandfather thought it was clever when I pulled it off, but he always warned me to remember my _true self_ instead of losing who I am in pretending to be Ryou. Which I thought was _crazy_ , but… He was right. That’s exactly what I wanted to do.”

“I’m going to be turning that over for a while,” Keith admits, so he can’t get too lost in his own head and leave Shiro hanging for too long. “But point taken. He and Maurice made things worse but there isn’t a single, identifiable reason why you have to work so hard to like yourself.”

“In fairness: is there a _single, identifiable reason_ why you don’t like _your_ self very much?”

Keith doesn’t need to think; he just shakes his head in a _no_. He could clarify what he means, and he could stand to elaborate. But right now, Keith doesn’t want to. Sighing, he adjusts his position on Shiro’s lion, gives Shiro a silent nod when he points out how fond of the little guy Keith seems to be. He doesn’t say anything to Shiro’s half-hearted joke about how he’d worry the lion liked Keith better than him, if he didn’t know that it’s only an inanimate stuffed toy. It’s cute, because Shiro can’t help being cute. It just isn’t even remotely in the vicinity of the point.

“Anyway, you sort of addressed what I had in mind for question seventeen…” Not that this is going to stop Keith from finding one. Or at least from finding a way to rephrase his original question so that any answer Shiro might give him won’t unnecessarily tread over ground that they’ve already covered in excruciating detail. “What d’you think would’ve happened between us? If not for Maurice?”

“There is no way that I can answer that question,” Shiro says, more quickly than Keith expects but without sounding ruffled. Squinting up at him only makes him give Keith a small, sad smile. “I’m sorry. I’ve tried Ulaz’s patience about this so much already… There are too many factors in play, there’s no way to be certain of anything, and I don’t want to get lost in obsessing over them like I can do… _Pink Flamingos_.”

Keith nods. “Eighteen might not be safe, either, but… Very different reasons.” Back cracking, he rolls out his shoulders and makes himself sit up to ask, “Would you _mind_ me asking if you were really in love with Maurice? Or would it be bad for you? I can ask something else if—”

“It’s fine, Keith. I’m… actually surprised you waited so long to ask me that.” All attempts at a smile fall away as Shiro rubs his thumbs up and down his mug. He says, without adornment, “I was in love with him. I wanted him to be in love with me. Sometimes, I let myself believe that he was… Or that he really did care about me, even if he didn’t love me like I wanted… So many times, being his _sweet boy_ left me feeling so rotten, I thought I couldn’t purge up enough, like…”

The dry, crackling chuckle that Shiro coughs up makes Keith’s heart flounder and feel like it’s drowning. Taking in the desperate way Shiro’s lips strain at his face, Keith’s heart stops, starts again, and rinse-lather-repeats that unfortunate, stuttering process with no intent to stop. Shiro’s eyes glimmer like he could cry again. Underlying everything else about his expression, there’s that same earnest, open fondness, the same kind that usually accompanies a sense that his universe might as well begin and end with Keith. This time, though, Shiro keeps looking down at his mug as if he’s embarrassed or maybe terrified, then back to Keith. He is looking at Keith like a lifeline more than anything else.

Keith toeing at his ankle bolsters Shiro enough to confess, “The first time you caught me making myself sick? I _know_ , I remember what I said? About the… Trying to lie to you like it hadn’t been on purpose, only admitting anything when you called me on the lie…”

While Shiro’s reminding himself how to breathe properly, Keith moves to the chair closest to his side. He eases the mug out of Shiro’s hands and gives him his lion instead. He waits for nods of permission before squeezing Shiro’s shoulder, then pushing his white fringe back off his face. Keith almost regrets that, watching Shiro force more tears out of his eyes. But with Shiro’s blessing, Keith leans up to kiss his cheek. He takes the Xanax out of his kangaroo pocket, but whatever this means exactly, Shiro turns down the offer of his meds and ending this game. Apparently, he doesn’t want to _Pink Flamingos_ out of giving Keith this answer, either.

“I’ve gotten this far,” he explains. “I can get through the rest.”

But Keith insists, “If you don’t want to, or don’t feel up to it? You don’t need to tell me what he did to you.”

“That’s the thing, he didn’t do anything. Or nothing much. Not that night…” Sighing softly, Shiro angles himself toward Keith and leans into Keith’s palm. It must take superhuman endurance for him to look Keith in the eye while admitting, “All he did that night was text me. He had to cancel a date… His Mother wanted him and Haxus to have dinner with her and one of their high society peers I’d had to meet during her event at the Peninsula. The one where he tortured me about you afterward… But that night, he didn’t… And I’d like…”

“Shiro…” Brushing his thumb down Shiro’s cheekbone, Keith murmurs, “Kashi, it’s okay—”

“I was relieved that he was letting me off the hook,” Shiro explains. “Until he had to go and tell me that his Mother’s friend…” A cringe. A shudder. And he nuzzles at Keith’s hand. “He told me that her friend had been impressed with me, when we’d met. He said he was so proud of his sweet boy, thanked me for not disappointing him… And I didn’t know why, but? That praise made me wish I could vomit up my soul…”

Looking Keith in the eye again and curling a hand around the black lion’s head, with his voice barely above a whisper, Shiro says, “I’m sorry. For not telling you, I… I didn’t even really get what I was feeling, I didn’t think I could put words on it for you myself… I just latched onto the first explanation you came up with that wasn’t a lie and left out the rest—”

“It’s okay…” Keith feels like a broken record, saying this again. But if Shiro still needs to hear it, then he’s going to hear it. “If you didn’t understand what you were feeling, it makes sense that you wouldn’t share it. How could you?”

With a wobbly smile, Shiro presses a kiss to Keith’s palm. “I wish I could tell you that all I feel for him anymore is hatred… Like that’d make any of this easier,” he says. “And the hate is there? But part of me does still love him… Makes me wish some of my Dad’s ideas about romance had been right. Normally, I don’t like the whole, ‘You can only be in love with one person at a time or it isn’t real love’ idea. But I don’t know… It feels like, if he’d been right? Falling for you might’ve made me forget how to love Maurice.”

“But it could’ve meant that you never fell for me at all,” Keith points out. “And personally, I like it better with you being in love with me? Because I’m in love with you, and it’s nicer being requited and…” An impulse kicks at the back of Keith’s mind, and maybe it’s not his best idea ever? But he leans in closer to Shiro and sings, “ _I waaaaant yooooou to want me. I neeeeed yooooou to need me. I’d looooooove you to love me. I’m begging you to beg me_ —”

Shiro snorts and his whole face crumples up with laughter. “Oh, now who’s the nerd.”

Keith could point out that he might have committed the antics but Shiro is the one who laughed. But instead, he heads to question nineteen, telling Shiro, “It’s not about the past so much as… And I know, I get it, we can’t make promises about the future? But…” A deep breath and a sigh. “The counselor on Monday? He seriously suggested that I look into finding a therapist or psychiatrist I can work with longer-term—”

“I think that’s a good idea—”

“That isn’t my question.” Keith huffs. He should look at Shiro, but can’t stop staring at his legs. There isn’t anything interesting about them, but it’s easier than trying to meet Shiro’s eyes right now. “What I want to know is: what are you going to do if I don’t go see a therapist?”

It takes Shiro some silent consideration before he says, “Given how many different moving pieces there are in play here, and how many different circumstances might affect the situation? I feel like you might have a different question in mind. And if that’s the case… Please, ask it outright. I know you can do that, and I’d appreciate it right now.”

Rolling his eyes doesn’t make Keith feel any better, but he lets himself have that moment of petulance regardless. “I wanna know where the limit to your patience is,” he drawls, and hopes he isn’t sneering. “If me not getting help puts your mental health in danger, are you going to stay with me?”

“In the sense that I won’t abandon you and will try to keep helping you? Yes.” Shiro puts that out there so quickly that Keith doesn’t mind how long a moment it takes for him to get around to, “But I am not going to play your therapist. I’ve been there and done that with Lotor, and he did it to me, and it is part of why we imploded like we did together. You and I both deserve better than that, Keith.”

“What if I think you aren’t sticking to that? Like, if I think you’re ignoring your own well-being for me?”

“You said you’ll call me out as many times as it takes, right?” Shiro’s easy, eager smile should be at odds with what he’s saying — and yet, as he reaches over to brush Keith’s hair off his face, the quirk of his lips seems perfectly in-place. “I’ll hold you to that, Keith. Call me out as necessary.”

“Works for me,” Keith supposes. Which only leaves them with—

“Question twenty,” he huffs. “Writing, ‘When You’re Away’? Who did you have in mind?”

Practically nothing about Shiro’s expression makes itself immediately comprehensible. Taking him in is like trying to puzzle through Altean: Keith can make sense of parts, but there’s so much missing that if he wants to get anywhere at all, he’s gonna need a textbook or a dictionary or even a cheap list of important phrases. The only thing on Shiro’s face that Keith can interpret easily is the ever-present fondness glimmering in his soft, gray eyes.

“It was for you, Keith,” he says. “Every word of that song, I wrote all of them for you.”

Which deserves a better answer, and however he swings it, Keith will come up with one for Shiro later. Right now, this very second, though, it’s enough for Keith to thank Shiro for doing this for him and, with permission, to drape his legs over Shiro’s lap. It’s enough for him to laugh softly as Shiro brushes his hair off of his face and tension melts out of Keith, tension that he didn’t realize he was holding onto until it unwound itself. It’s enough for him to watch the way that Shiro looks at him, to feel so warm, and trembling, and content as Shiro nudges their foreheads together ever-so-gently, and then to kiss him, urging Shiro down with a hand on the back of his neck, trying to make him kiss back deeper and harder, like Keith _knows damn well_ he can.

Keith’s not sure how long they spend making out at the kitchen table before someone kicks in the apartment door. It’s only Lance and Hunk with dinner, though. That, and an explanation about how Matt and Pidge needed privacy for a call with their Mom. Either way, Hunk and Lance don’t stick around the kitchen for too long, once they pass the brown paper bag of takeout off to Shiro. The only reason they get delayed is for Lance to complain about how Keith’s no fun to snark with when he’s hungry, so can he please hurry up and eat already.

Leaning against Shiro’s side and poking at a container of beef and broccoli may not be the biggest, most significant event in anybody’s life. But as Shiro curls his free arm around Keith’s shoulders, the truth hits Keith square in the chest: if the world ends tomorrow morning, he’ll feel content enough with what he has right now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On our next episode of Idiots In Love: Allura meets Hunk, Lance, Pidge, Ryou, and Matt (Keith also meets Matt); Keith’s social skills leave much to be desired; Ryou questions his brother’s judgment somewhat; KARAOKE and the after-effects thereof; and well, Shiro doesn’t want to say he told you so, Ryou…… but mostly only because he is otherwise preoccupied with the after-effects of karaoke.


	18. two hearts that lost the beat will now resume

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this chapter breaks this fic’s usual prohibition on POV-switching within chapters (though not within scenes). The next two chapters are going to do the same thing (but again, no POV-switching within scenes), but I thought about it and decided that I had good enough reason for it, this time.
> 
> As is so often the case with me in this fic, this chapter and chapter 19 were supposed to be a single unit — but I started getting bogged down in everything that was going on and feeling like it needed a split. So, I inserted one with only a couple scenes left in the action and now, back to actually finishing it. Then, moving on to chapter 20.
> 
> The chapter title is from Olivia Newton-John’s “Twist Of Fate” for reasons that will become obvious in a few hours when chapter 19’s up, but that you might well be able to guess them from Shiro and Ryou’s bit together in this chapter — or Hell, maybe even from the bit with Hunk, Keith, and Allura, because Shiro’s idea here really isn’t that subtle.

“So, I cannot help noticing… You seem better rested than usual today, _unelinde_.”

Keith arches an eyebrow at Allura over the top of her computer. She’s slouching onto their table at Java Hut, resting on her elbows in a way that wants Keith to believe she’s being casual. If not for the impish glimmer in her bright, blue-green eyes, he’d probably buy it. Granted, maybe not — maybe he’d still need to wonder if she’s giving him more façade than anything else, and if so, why would she be doing that right here and now — but those eyes are the biggest betrayal of how she definitely has an angle. Even keeping her lips pressed into neutrality and refusing to let her eyebrows quirk up too far, Allura’s eyes don’t get that scalpel’s edge glint unless she has a mind to figure something out or find the truth of something else. Clearly, she has an angle. There’s a game afoot for her and she has a mind to win.

Which is normally fine, but for now, Keith only lets himself shrug. He tugs his notebook closer to the laptop and furrows his brow down at one line of college-ruled paper where his longhand got scrunched together. The letters are painstakingly rigid as ever, but he thought that he could fit all of this answer onto one page and refused to give up on that notion, even as he quickly ran out of blank space. At least most of the free response questions on Kolivan’s TA application don’t have an upper limit on how many words or characters Keith is allowed to give them. This seems like a bad idea, considering how often Kolivan’s complained about other students treating the word or page limits on his assignments as loose suggestions instead of trusting his threats to stop reading on the last page allowed by the guidelines that he laid out.

Then again, most of the students who’ve run afoul of that with Kolivan probably aren’t applying to be his TA. Even if they were, Keith doesn’t plan to waste any of Kolivan’s time with this. Following Kolivan’s recommendation for how to answer the questions means that most of the extraneous details from Keith’s earlier drafts will get excised. In a different situation, Kolivan might care more about the grimy West Virginia rest-stop floor Keith spent most of a Halloween kneeling on only eight days after turning eighteen and how it looked like it might’ve gotten cleaned up after more than its fair share of murders, or about the time back in Chicago when Keith and Shiro got busted fooling around in the old bookshop’s employee break-room. In the context of this application, though, Kolivan only wants the details that most answer the questions.

As Keith keeps tapping away at the keyboard, Allura huffs and scoots closer to the table. She wrinkles her nose as she tells him, “Of course, what I mean to say with, ‘You seem more rested than usual’ is that you seem to have gotten any meaningful rest at all.”

“Yeah, sleeping with Shiro… erm.” Keith glares at a turn of phrase on the screen. Sure, he just typed it up, but now, the words don’t make sense to him. Something about how he’s arranged them seems inescapably wrong. “Two nights straight, I’ve actually slept until my alarm goes off instead of waking up every other hour. It’s… strange?”

Allura hums pensively and barely misses knocking over the empty cup from her hot chocolate. “I would think you’d be somewhat more relaxed if you had slept with Shiro. Your current choice in apparel and its tacit suggestions notwithstanding.”

Keith starts asking what she means by that, but glancing down answers his question. The black block letters stare back at him, spelling out, _“Frankie Says Relax”_ on the white background. It’s comfortable, if maybe somewhat snugger around Keith’s midsection than it is on Shiro’s. That’s too difficult for Keith to tell right now, though. For all he should get back to the gym, he could just as easily be imagining things. Indulging himself in that could mean getting lost instead of typing up his longhand in the name of getting this application done and turned in already. Dwelling on the shirt offers about as much help as getting hit on the head by a falling encyclopedia.

For the moment, he shrugs and hopes telling Allura the truth is enough to temporarily satiate her concern and admitted nosiness.

“I need to do laundry, so there was only one spare shirt in my backpack. I wore it yesterday. This morning, my options were borrowing one of Shiro’s shirts, drowning in one of Hunk’s, or possibly suffocating in one of Lance’s shirts because he seems to like them tight — unless it’s a crop-top, which? Why would you even wear one of those in Massachusetts, in _November_?”

And this particular top felt and smelled the most like him, which Keith wouldn’t mind confiding in Allura if they were sitting somewhere with more privacy than Java Hut. As it stands, though, he’d rather not deal with anybody overhearing and looking at him like he’s some kind of stalker or Lord only knows what else. Less offensive and (hopefully) less dangerous to the people he cares about, Keith is simply a garden-variety weirdo who picked out a shirt to borrow because, when he sniffed it this morning, it seemed clean _and_ made him feel safer than all of Shiro’s other t-shirts. However accurate, that might not come across so well to any eavesdroppers if he told Allura about the, _“I don’t know, it smells like him and I appreciate that”_ part of how this morning went.

Not that any of this is random strangers’ business, but that hardly stops some people and even hypothetically dealing with them sounds tedious.

“I’m not even kidding about Lance and his collection of crop-tops,” Keith mutters, trying to relocate his place on the page. “It should not be possible for any human being to own so many of those things. But the one with Superman and Batman making out is cute, I guess.”

“I might prefer _seeing_ said shirt before passing judgment on it,” Allura supposes. “But that also isn’t what I’m angling at.”

Keith shrugs, quickly banging out a few lines that don’t need much in the way of editing. Trying not to knock over any empty pastry wrappers, he reaches for his current cup of coffee and allows himself an, _“Ugh”_ when he comes up with one of his empty ones. When he takes a long drink out of the right cup, he glances toward Allura, who looks up from whatever she’s doing on her phone. Atop the wrappers sits the chocolate chip scone that Keith’s a little over halfway done with, and he breaks off a decent piece of it. Slouching onto his elbows, he takes another one before attempting to give Allura another answer.

“It’s an old shirt, I guess? Shiro had it before I first found him in Chicago, and that’s already going on six years ago… It looks better on him than me, but I’m probably not objective about that? I mean, as long as he’s healthy, I think he’d look better than most people in pretty much anything he could possibly wear. Even when he _hasn’t_ been healthy, I thought he was beautiful, so… Like I said, I’m not objective?”

Which isn’t helping Keith ignore how the shirt hugs his stomach. His posture likely isn’t helping, either, with the way it squishes his middle. The newfound softness crumples around itself and pooches out, not by much but definitely by enough that Keith notices. It’s happening under the table and out of Allura’s current line of sight, but Keith tugs on the t-shirt anyway, grabbing for whatever extra fabric he can find. God, getting too hung up on this is probably stupid… Keith’s choice in shirt fits him well enough and when he’s sitting upright, it isn’t _that_ tight… If it were, Allura wouldn’t point it out like this, not exactly being coy but distracting Keith and acting like her intentions are perfectly obvious, she’d come right out and say so…

On the other hand, though, the current fit of Shiro’s favorite shirt might better reflect the fact that Keith has actually had an appetite today, instead of forcing himself to eat. Failing to eat more or less decently upsets the people who insist on caring about him, and some days make things particularly difficult for him.

But then, Keith has days when he might eat everything that doesn’t eat him first. This morning, he argued when Hunk offered to share some of the pancakes he’d made too many of, but all resistance crumbled when Hunk pointed out the mix of banana _and_ chocolate chips. When he and Allura got lunch at Yvonne’s earlier, Keith took full advantage of the diner’s bottomless fries. At one point, he barely noticed how much he’d been eating until the waitress brought out his third basket. Dessert was Allura’s idea, but once she brought up the offer, Keith was in; his huge slice of fudge cake didn’t stand a chance. Most of the garbage built up on their table is Keith’s fault, because Java Hut’s pastries have seemed tastier than usual and he has meal money to use. He feels like he’s eaten enough for the next week but he could still go for another scone.

Despite everything he’s already eaten today, Keith’s already looking forward to grabbing dinner everyone but Shiro before karaoke. Despite the waistband of his jeans digging into his stomach, he might not turn down an entire “death by chocolate” cake if someone offered. None of which erases the fact that Keith needs enough energy to go hit the gym again — but at the same time? Maybe Shiro’s Frankie Goes to Hollywood shirt feels tighter than it would normally because Keith’s so stuffed. Being fuller than usual would totally make his little belly more pronounced.

Either way, Keith shrugs at Allura for now. “I guess I could’ve picked a shirt that’s a little more _forgiving_? It’s not like Shiro has a shortage of black ones I could’ve borrowed, or _looser_ ones…” He drags a hand back through his hair. When some flops back over one eye, Keith rolls his eyes and tries to flip it off. “But I like this one—”

“You look cute.” Giving him a small, fond smile, Allura bats a foot at his ankle. “It’s rather like wearing his varsity jacket.”

“I was swimming in his varsity jacket, the one time I wore it back in Texas. But I was also twelve and this wasn’t a _romantic_ gesture.” With a soft sigh, Keith rests his chin in his palm. It doesn’t help with the problem of keeping his hair out of his face, but whatever. “I’d tagged along to one of the lacrosse team’s away games. Sure, I had a small library in my backpack but I didn’t listen to Bryce’s parents about the weather forecast and how maybe, I should bring a coat. Then, at halftime, Shiro saw I was shivering and hugging myself in a fetal position. So, he got me some of the warm cider that the other team’s booster club was selling and let me wear his jacket.”

“ _Awww_ …” Allura doesn’t even try holding back on that or on her sparkly, eager expression. Vaguely, Keith isn’t sure he can hold either of those reactions against her, considering the story. There’s a good chance that Allura is imagining short, mop-topped, scrawny, twelve-year-old Keith in those bleachers, looking smaller than he usually did because of how his jacket-cocoon was obviously too big for him.

But then she tells him, “How the shirt fits you wasn’t what I was meant, either. Regarding how you _slept_ with Shiro…”

“Good, because I didn’t know how much more I can tell you about it.” Huffing, Keith tucks some of his hair behind his ear and hopes that it does him a favor and stays there. “All I’ve got left there is, like… Being annoyed that I didn’t even _notice_ I’m getting chunky ’til Shiro started getting handsy after I first slept over? Feeling exasperated ‘cause I can’t afford new pants so I need to get back to the gym? But thinking about it too much is _tiring_. Then, something I read in one of Monday’s pamphlets—”

“Which part?” All of her impishness disappears into a concerned frown.

“The part where losing or putting on weight without meaning to was on the, ‘Potential signs of depression’ checklist that one of them had.” Taking a deep breath, Keith lets himself close his eyes. “I kinda wish I’d slept over with you or him or anybody on Monday night? I was too tired for a real meltdown, but reading that checklist on my own was, I dunno… Call it, ‘messy’?”

“If it helps? That is hardly an uncommon experience.” It takes a moment of maneuvering around the laptop and their trash, but Allura reaches over to squeeze Keith’s wrist. “Personally, I dealt with it… First, while reading about battle fatigue for a history class in prep school, wondering why I felt such a sense of self-recognition. That incident shook me so badly that I spent _years_ telling myself that I must have been imagining things because most of what I noticed was not as pronounced as the symptoms in different accounts about the soldiers’ experiences. Also, I have clearly never fought in a war.”

“I’m sorry, Princess.” Keith doesn’t need to apologize, but it isn’t as though Allura’s problems can do that for themselves. Trying to give her a smile (praying that it looks reassuring instead of painful), he says, “At least you’re in a better place now, though, right?”

Allura nods and returns the smile. “You’re going to get to one, too. Whether you currently believe that or not.”

“Right now, I don’t know _what_ I believe,” Keith admits. He lowers the laptop’s screen and leans toward Allura so he can get away with lowering his voice. “I know I’d like a lot of what’s been going on for me lately to stop? Which is an option, apparently? Which feels unbelievable, but I’m running short on actual belief in much of anything in general, so… I don’t know?”

He shrugs and blows at a stray clump of hair to no avail. Whatever — he has more to do than sit here and obsess about keeping it off his face. “Either way? I _do_ know this application for Kolivan isn’t gonna type itself.”

Allura nods. “But we still haven’t addressed what I intended by asking about your _sleeping_ arrangements last night…”

After several moments of pointed silence, she clears her throat and what she means clicks into place.

“I didn’t sleep with Shiro _sexually_ , Princess,” he says without looking up from his typing. “I mean to say that I _literally_ slept with him. Fell asleep next to him, in his bed. Started out as the big spoon only to wake up tangled in his arms with my head on his chest. For two nights straight.”

Which Keith could let stand, but a thought occurs and his mouth adds on, “I’m not sure which part was more disorienting, earlier. Being kinda fuzzy because I actually slept through the night, how much I _liked_ him whining about it being too early and trying to keep me in bed for five more minutes, or the fact that he kissed me with his stubble and morning-breath and I didn’t even care. I mean, it was still scratchy, and a little gross, and objectively not as good as kisses when his mouth _doesn’t_ taste like a gas station microwave smells, but…”

Keith shrugs. “I dunno, at least I _get_ to have gross, scratchy morning kisses with him?”

That explanation gets a smile out of her, if a small one. “I’m glad that things are going so well with your _beau_ , but…”

The smile drops and Allura nudges closer to the table than should be comfortable. Lowering her voice, she says, “What about everything _else_? I know what it means to you for things to be going so well with Shiro, but… I would prefer not to see you ignore your other problems simply because you and Shiro are working out your relationship and this makes you feel better.”

“It _doesn’t_ make me feel better,” Keith supposes off-handedly. “I mean, it makes me feel better about things with him? But then there’s still a lot of other junk that’s tangled and messy, like? So, I’m not expecting that being with him will _fix_ anything, and he wants to help me without being my therapist. I’m supposed to call him out if I feel like he’s doing that, but…”

Keith shakes his head and gets a face full of hair for it. “Anyway, I hope that Blumfump guy from health services can tide me over as a counselor until I have health insurance. And that I get Kolivan’s TA spot so I can actually have health insurance. And that maybe my best friend has a spare elastic in her bag?”

Allura does, in fact, have a spare elastic. But as Keith tames his hair back into a ponytail, she can’t help pointing out, “Darling, if your counselor from health services is recommending that you find someone else to see, it is likely a matter of what qualifications they might have. That is, whether or not they have the training to best help you—”

“Yeah, he mentioned that at the end of our session instead of answering my question about this so-called _complex_ post-traumatic stress disorder — which? That’s still such a _stupid_ name, like? Isn’t _all_ PTSD—”

“And I realize that you have certain feelings about being in people’s alleged debts…” Allura continues as though Keith didn’t try to derail the conversation just now. The open, somber way she looks at him makes Keith’s arms break out in gooseflesh, as if he’s stuck in freezing rain without a coat on. He almost flinches away when she curls her fingers around the back of his hand, almost tries to jerk back from her as if she were anybody else.

“Keith, if I can help you be well by helping pay for therapy before you get your health insurance? Then I would not consider you in my debt.” Allura locks her eyes on his and gently squeezes his hand. “Please let me help you, _unelinde_?”

_I’ll think about it, Princess_ , Keith almost tells her without thought for whether or not he means it.

He almost lets himself say, _But it could be really costly, which means something to me even if **you** don’t see it as a huge expense_.

Keith blushes without even letting the retorts searing his tongue slip loose. Sure, he chokes them back but he still came up with them when all Allura’s done is care about him and this can’t mean anything good. Probably, this is another entry on the lengthening list of reasons why Keith needs help. No doubt, trying to refuse Allura’s offer of help would go on that list, too. He has to swallow a sigh of relief when she glances over his shoulder for a moment, instead of staring at him so intently and with such concern. Under that look, the gooseflesh on Keith’s arms feels like it’s squirming and he wants to scratch it off. He _shouldn’t_ , he isn’t going to, and thankfully, Allura returns to looking at him before the urge gets too strong to resist. Still, that kind of reaction cannot be good.

Whatever Keith’s impulses in this situation mean, though, he owes Allura a better answer before he can bolt to grab another refill. Swallowing thickly, he nods at her. It doesn’t seem to put her mind at ease, but that makes sense. Nodding could mean too many things about a subject where Allura would probably prefer more certainty than Keith is currently giving her. Right as he decides to just say something — _anything_ — Allura squints over his shoulder again, and Keith rolls his eyes while she isn’t paying attention. God, he loves her, but he needs to get back to his work and this is holding him up.

“I’m not saying _no_ , Princess?” Keith offers when Allura returns to looking at him. “But I haven’t even started looking for someone yet. Never mind finding someone who’s okay with taking on a new uninsured patient. And I know waiting isn’t necessarily the best idea, and maybe I can’t get what I really need at health services? But for now… I don’t know what’s going to happen, or what I might or might not need. Aside from more coffee, and can I get you anything?”

Allura pouts, but still nods. “Please keep me in the loop? Also, a refill and another pumpkin spice cookie?”

That much, Keith can agree to easily and Allura hands him a fiver to pay him back for her order. Before getting in the line, he gathers the trash — he’s up anyway, so he might as well clear off the table. He huffs across the coffee-shop and tries not to think about how many of the crumpled up pastry wrappers come from treats that he ate. Most of them were his doing and yes, he knew that, but counting them together like this makes Keith’s cheeks flush hot.

Going over what he’s had makes the blush spread to his ears and spill down his neck: one of the huge pumpkin spice cookies and one of the peanut butter ones… two chocolate chip scones and one with raspberries and crystallized sugar on top… a double-chocolate chip muffin so big, it probably counted for two servings on its own… a chocolate croissant… one of the bigger strawberry-chocolate cheesecake brownies… and all of that got put on top too much breakfast and a lunch that, by all rights, should’ve kept Keith satiated until dinner at the very least…

Keith cringes. God, if he’s been eating like this every day he’s had an actual appetite lately, it might be a miracle he can still get in his jeans at all. At least Allura hasn’t felt like rubbing his face in how much he’s eaten today. It’s not really her style and she’s been snacking too, but Keith’s embarrassed enough without her input. He doesn’t need Allura to be bluntly concerned or bluntly perplexed or any other way of bluntly commenting on his eating.

Once the wrappers are safely in a garbage can, Keith tugs at Shiro’s shirt even though it isn’t really riding up or clinging more than it already was. Something about realizing how much he’s eaten makes the fabric feel tighter and makes him more aware of the denim hugging his thighs.

Although Keith doesn’t have time to linger, he takes a moment to narrow his eyes down at his stomach. Palming at himself, Keith can’t miss the way his belly swells out around his middle, pushing against the shirt and his waistband. He frowns as he pokes the muffin-top pooching over his jeans. He grimaces at how much more pudge he can pinch along his hips. So soft and doughy, Keith’s sides yield underneath his fingers and his heart skips a beat… He wouldn’t mind if Shiro grabbed him there and jostled his chub. He’s made Keith get so relaxed and contented, all by squeezing Keith’s tummy with his huge, slightly calloused hands, caressing Keith’s extra padding like it’s the universe’s most precious thing and Shiro needs to protect it—

Grumbling, Keith cuts that thought off right there. As nice as it is, Keith doesn’t have time to go jerk off in Java Hut’s restroom and clean up after himself. Face burning and tomato red, he shoves his hands into his pockets and stomps to the end of the line. He tries to glare at the floor, but mostly, this means staring at his stomach. He could suck in if he wanted a break from these reminders that he might be getting chubby, but that sounds uncomfortable and tedious.

At least the situation likely isn’t as bad as his mind wants him to think it is. Realistically, Keith can’t have put on _that_ much weight. True, he hasn’t hit the gym since mid-July, but he also doesn’t pig out like this every day or even every week. He walks everywhere unless it’s a long enough distance to justify taking the bus. Plus, Keith would’ve run out of wearable clothes by now, if he’d really started porking out. Without a scale, he has no idea what his weight’s gotten up to now or how far off he is from the summer, when these jeans weren’t quite so snug. But he can still get them buttoned, so things _can’t_ be as bad as his mind’s trying to make them.

Even so, Keith has probably packed on enough extra pounds that he should’ve noticed before Shiro got handsy with his pudge. He’s _definitely_ let himself go enough that he shouldn’t be eyeing anything else in the display case. No matter how delicious the latest batch of cinnamon rolls looks and no matter how long it’s been since he had a cannoli, Keith can’t give himself another indulgence right now.

Sure, his mouth waters from just looking at those cherry danishes and they _would_ be tasty — but his jeans are tight enough as is, and there’s no room in his budget to get new ones — but he has already spent today treating himself and he’ll probably have no appetite again tomorrow, so why not keep going while he actually feels like eating — but this isn’t a debate because Keith can’t buy new pants, so he has to rein his sweet tooth in—

Fortunately, something jerks Keith out of that mental rabbit hole: someone behind him calls his name. He perks up, in case they aren’t trying to attract a different Keith’s attention. Before he can turn around, somebody crashes into his back and he tenses as they yank him into a warm, cuddly hug. An impulse deep in Keith’s chest screams at him to struggle and break free — until he truly takes in the broad shoulders and big arms enveloping him. The soft belly squishing up against his back cements things for Keith and he chuckles as he pats Hunk’s wrist.

“Hey, Big Man.” Smiling, Keith leans his head back onto Hunk’s shoulder. “So, is Pete Wentz signing autographs out on the quad? Or are you just pleased to see me?”

“I thought I spotted you and wanted to come say, ‘Hi.’” Hunk squeezes Keith tighter and keeps hanging on as the line moves up. “Also, maybe come sit with you and your friend until dinner if she doesn’t mind? Sitting by myself is so lonely.”

“Allura probably won’t mind—”

“Oh, is that Allura?” Hunk shifts against Keith’s back like he’s trying to crane his neck to see her. “Oh, dude, she’s _pretty_. Were you two, like, a gorgeous, terrifying power-couple when you guys dated or something? You could totally make that work…”

“Nah, not really? She’s a pastel goth princess who’s too smart for her own good and always ready to fight and I’m, like? The disheveled, socially awkward street rat who followed her home.” As he’s trying to find his wallet, it occurs to Keith that he could tell Hunk to let go of him. Except as Hunk’s chin drops onto his shoulder, Keith realizes that he doesn’t want to. “…I actually did follow her home and live with her for a while.”

“Wait, really?”

“Yeah, but it wasn’t like… Back in our first year, there was this mess with my financial aid and I lost my student housing. I lied to her about it for a while — not, like, outright untruths most of the time? Just not telling her, which…” Keith sighs, tapping Hunk’s elbow because they need to keep moving with the line. “Learned the hard way that not telling people about things can sometimes be even worse than outright lying to them?”

“‘Sometimes’ being the operative word there, though, right?”

“Yeah, it depends on the context, but…” Keith shrugs. “Anyway, I fell back on this habit of sleeping in other people’s cars. One night, I broke into Alfor’s Benz and crashed out in the backseat. Then, they got back to it and she woke me up, and I was all, ‘I mean, your security system is obviously not as high-quality as it thinks it is’ and that…” He sighs. “That was _not_ the ideal way to meet your girlfriend’s Father for the first time?”

Regardless of how Hunk doesn’t know, it’s their turn at the counter. Keith puts in the order for his coffee, Allura’s cappuccino and pumpkin spice cookie, and screw it, a cherry danish with chocolate drizzle because he’s already indulging and his appetite might be all but literally dead tomorrow. Then, he gently elbows at Hunk’s belly. “What d’you want?”

Hunk shrugs, rubbing his shoulders against Keith’s. “I mean? I can pay for myself?”

“I haven’t used enough of my mandatory meal money this semester. Please, let me get you something.”

Apparently, the way to Hunk’s heart is a toffee latte and a caramel brownie. Potentially very useful information for later. Somewhat less helpful is the way he keeps hugging Keith even as they make their way back to the table. He holds onto his own cup, but Keith’s left balancing the treats on top of his and Allura’s drinks, hoping that none of them falls. Still, Allura snorts and grins bemusedly at them when they manage to get there, which is better than sulking or worrying. So, maybe maneuvering around the tables and the other patrons like this was worth it.

“I thought I saw someone looking in our direction…” she says, arching an eyebrow.

“Yeah, about that…” Introducing people to each other sucks. But Keith takes a deep breath and gets on with it: “Princess, this is Hunk. He plays the drums for Galaxy Garrison, and he bakes the cupcakes and everything else… Uh, he _also_ used to date Shay and he actually reads the forward emails that his Grandma sends him?”

“Hey, she only sends me the ones about cats who keep abandoned babies warm and stuff—”

Keith shrugs. “And sometimes, he opens documents on computers that don’t belong to him? Which instigates the process of having conversations that should’ve been had a long time ago? So, in a way, it’s kinda his fault that me and Shiro are working things out?”

“That sounds like something he should be _credited_ for, rather than faulted,” Allura points out. Tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear, she wrinkles her nose. “…Is he shy? Is that why he’s hiding in plain sight behind you?”

“Uh, no… I don’t?” Keith drops his head onto Hunk’s shoulder. “Why _are_ you still hugging me?”

Hunk gives him another squeeze and a noise like, _I don’t know_. “After you left this morning, Shiro was telling me and Lance that he thinks you might be touch-starved? Which can be all kinds of bad for you? Like, one time when I borrowed Pidge’s student ID and login so I could use your guys’ library, I was reading some of the recent work about affection and mental health, and some of it’s _really_ sad…

“So, I dunno, I can stop if you want, but?” He rubs his cheek against Keith’s shoulder. “I wanted to help?”

Which is great — or anyway, Keith can appreciate how Hunk is coming at the issue — but with that explanation out there, Keith finally wriggles under the hug. “Thanks, buddy,” he says, rubbing his head on Hunk’s shoulder because he can’t pat his hand right now. “But I kinda need to finish a job application before dinner? And Allura probably wants to eat her cookie? D’you think you two can find something to talk about while I get this done already?”

Hunk whines a bit, but he lets Keith go. While Keith shuffles his things over so there’s more room on the table, Hunk drags over his bag and an extra chair. He sets himself down, sips on his latte, and asks Allura about her juniberry flower earrings, while Keith pinches the bridge of his nose then dives headlong back into his typing.

Having the two of them around, if anything, makes Keith _more_ productive. Allura _knew_ what he was planning to do when she came to meet him, but ignoring her to work still makes Keith feel bad. But with Hunk here to pick up the conversational slack, he and Allura can entertain and get to know each other. Keith, meanwhile, can largely tune them out and hang out the rest of this application. Some of the snatches that he picks up on include mentions of Allura’s mice (she had to wrestle Platt back into their homestead this morning after she caught him harassing her Father’s cat again), Hunk’s attempts at learning to knit (Lance makes it look easy but Hunk kind of prefers tinkering with electronics), Battle of the Bands (it’s happening tomorrow night at Moonstruck and Hunk hopes that he can talk Allura into coming maybe, since Shiro’s already wrangled Keith), _Jurassic Park_ (or at least Allura drops in the, _“Dinosaurs eat man, woman inherits the Earth”_ line that she loves so much), and Shay (not to Keith’s surprise, though it might be the most pleasant discussion he’s ever heard between two people who share a romantic entanglement with someone else… either this or Allura meeting Shiro).

When Keith finally hits the, _“Submit”_ button and comes back down to the conversation, Hunk and Allura have moved on to karaoke.

“I am still weighing my options,” Allura says with a pensive huff. “But we should be fine, as long as Keith doesn’t sing ‘Uptown Girl’—”

“Wait, why isn’t he allowed to sing ‘Uptown Girl’?”

“It used to be _our_ song, when we dated, and he came up with it—”

“Aww, that’s so sweet—”

“But things have been going well with him and Shiro, so…” Allura chuckles. “I would like things to _continue_ going well for them—”

“I’m not gonna sing ‘Uptown Girl’ tonight, okay?” Keith snaps Allura’s laptop closed and nudges it back toward her. Slouching onto his elbows, he tears off another piece of his danish. “I’m trying to make up my mind on what I’m doing too, but I know it’s not gonna be that song. In the name of not getting any further wires crossed. Because me and Shiro have done that enough for the next lifetime, and I’d rather not?”

“Aww, I think he wouldn’t mind, though?” Hunk gives Keith a smile that he probably intends to be reassuring. Oddly enough, it does make Keith smile back. Gently nudging Keith’s shoulder, Hunk tells him, “Don’t get me wrong, he’d like it better if you were singing to him, for sure. But as long as you were having fun, he’d be cool with it.”

“Yeah, but I’m not gonna risk it right now, y’know?” Keith smirks. “Besides, singing to him could be fun — past experiences notwithstanding.”

“I mean, I guess? But you don’t have to sing to Shiro just because _he’s_ planning, like, and…”

Hunk’s eyes widen and his lips purse as he trails off into the dead silence of someone who shouldn’t have said what he just blurted out. He glances from Keith to Allura, then throws himself into a long drink of his latte. When he comes back up, he wrings his hands around each other and looks up to the ceiling as though it contains the answers to all his problems. Most likely, he doesn’t want to look Keith in the narrowed eyes or deal with Keith’s pointedly quirked eyebrow and what it means. Generally, Keith doesn’t think he blames Hunk for that, though, so maybe it’s best to give him some time. Maybe all he needs is a moment to shuffle around in his seat like no matter what he does, he can’t get comfortable and idly fuss with the protective cover on his cup.

After a couple moments of silence and fidgeting without the slightest hint of an answer, Keith can’t handle being patient. “Hunk,” he says, toeing at Hunk’s ankle. “What is Shiro planning?”

“ _Nothing_ , okay!” Hunk forces a grin like he knows that he sounds completely unconvincing. But he pushes on anyway, rattling off, “Nothing, for real, he is planning absolutely nothing and it doesn’t involve karaoke — I mean, if he _were_ planning anything, which he isn’t? But if he were, then it one-hundred percent _would not_ involve karaoke? _Or_ doing the opposite of anything before? Or anything involving music whatsoever because he hasn’t written any new songs about you lately, and why would he sing one at karaoke anyway? That’s so funny, like haha hilarious, right? And I mean, this isn’t _Ten Things I Hate About You_ , so why would he even _think_ of having plans with other people’s songs or publicly singing them for you? Sure, he’s gonna be late but that’s just ‘cause he has somewhere else to be after he meets us for dinner, but he’s not really making any _particular_ arrangements or ideas or, like… He totally isn’t, not even a little, I mean, just…”

Pausing to get his breath makes Hunk groan and slump in on himself. “Okay, _fine_ ,” he says. “Shiro _might_ possibly be planning something—”

“It sounds to me as though he certainly _is_ ,” Allura points out. She’s trying to sound prim. But as she leans closer to Hunk, she has that glimmer in her eyes like she wants to hear what’s going on as much as Hunk sounds like he wants to say it.

“But he wants it to be a _surprise_ , he’s really excited about it, so I’m not supposed to _tell Keith_ —”

“Oh, but what if we asked questions and guessed?”

“Shiro probably wouldn’t count that as Hunk telling us, Princess. But it might ruin whatever he’s planning, and he’s going all in about putting it together, so…” Shrugging, Keith throws back a long drink of his coffee. “I think we can let it go, okay? It’s only a few more hours.”

Allura pouts. “You want to figure it out, too.”

“Yeah, but I _don’t_ want to mess up Shiro’s surprise.” Still, she has a point, and Keith has to ask Hunk, “What’d you mean by, ‘the opposite of anything’? Because all I’ve got is that Shiro’s sober now, and that’s _good_? But I don’t feel like that’s what you mean?”

Hunk shakes his head. “I mean, he’s trying to pick songs that are the opposite of what he did that last time in Chicago? And I dunno how well he’s really doing, since Lance and I had to talk him out of one of them? And he didn’t _tell us_ what it was, exactly? It was more like, Lance got all, ‘I swear to God, if you sing, “Careless Whisper” for Keith tonight, I’m gonna scream’ and I was like, ‘I’m with Lance, ’cause it’s a really good song but it doesn’t exactly fit your guys’ situation anymore, and just’…”

Probably realizing that he’s said too much, Hunk groans and face-plants on the table. “ _Please_ pretend I didn’t tell you that?”

“Tell us what,” Keith deadpans. “Clearly, we need to just not talk about Shiro, so… What’re you singing tonight, Big Man?”

“I dunno…” Whining, Hunk rests his chin on his forearms. “It depends a lot on Lance—”

“Who died and made him the arbiter of what you can do for karaoke?”

“Not like that, okay? It’s all, like… I don’t even know.” Hunk quirks his shoulders without quite shrugging, and he doesn’t bolster much when Keith pats him on the back. But he does find the drive enough to admit, “So, Lance said he’s in love with me? And he said I could have time to put together how I feel about him, but I don’t know? We had that talk almost two weeks ago — it was back on your guys’ birthday — and I don’t feel like I know any better than I did then? Or, like, I guess I know how I feel, _mostly_? But I don’t really know what it _means_ , or if it’s different from any other way I’ve felt about him before, or if any of it necessarily means I’m romantically in love with him, and like…”

Letting out another throaty, discontented noise, Hunk looks like the human embodiment of a rain-cloud. Also, like he probably needs a hug himself. But before Keith can ask, Hunk adds on, “I mean, we’ve always been together since we were six? And he’s pretty, but you can admit that someone’s pretty without being into them? And usually, it _helps_ to break things down, for me? Or to put them in a metaphor that explains them? But that hasn’t been helping with this _at all_ , and I can’t even come up with a metaphor, and…”

Hunk trails off into a heavy sigh. After giving him a minute, Keith tries rubbing his back again. Hunk leans toward him like he’s getting some kind of relief out of the physical contact. Besides, friends do things like this for each other, right? Comforting each other when they need it?

“For what it’s worth? I know that feeling, too.” He only pulls his arm back so he can slouch down closer to Hunk’s eye-line. The eye-contact isn’t perfect, but Keith doesn’t want Hunk to feel like he’s being talked down to or anything. Trying to smile at him, Keith says, “But I’d also have to put my vote in for, ‘Talk to Lance and admit that you feel confused’? Instead of attaching too much significance to karaoke? Because the last time I did that, well… You read the essay _and_ heard Shiro’s take on it. You know what happened.”

“But I mean, he already knows I’m feeling confused, so it’s like…” Hunk grimaces and grumbles out an, _“Ugh”_ as if reality is currently offending him by doing its own thing instead of doing _his_ ideal thing. Keith feels him on that count too, but it’s probably for the best that Hunk keeps them moving on: “I mean, I think I’d feel better if I could learn by doing with this? But doing that with feelings and relationships gets _messy_ , and Lance is my _best friend_ , y’know? I don’t wanna hurt him ‘cause we start screwing around and it turns out I don’t wanna be his boyfriend after all?”

“That’s quite considerate of you, Hunk,” Allura points out gently. “But dragging things out while you ponder your feelings could do a similar amount of damage. Granted, I’ve never met Lance, so I can’t say how _he_ might take it—”

“Whatever he feels about the waiting, he’s so ass over teakettle for you that you could probably kill somebody and he’d tell everyone that you did nothing wrong.” Which likely isn’t that helpful, so Keith tacks on, “Look, I’m not _really_ qualified to speak on this because I _did_ fall in love with Shiro? Also, I’m not you and I’m not Lance—”

“I dunno…” Hunk arches his eyebrows. “You’ve got more in common with him than you think.”

“Not the point.” Keith shakes his head as if this will banish that thought from his mind forever. “All I’m trying to say is: sometimes, you have to take the risk. Tell Lance what you told us. Tell him so _without_ cloaking it in karaoke. See how open he is to, I dunno… Taking things slow, or experimenting, or something. Maybe it won’t go how you want it to, but if you aren’t figuring things out on your own?”

“ _Ohhhhh_!” Finally, Hunk’s grinning again and things feel slightly less wrong with the world. “You mean like you and therapy? ‘Cause you’re always trying to say you’re doing just fine on your own, but maybe you really don’t? And maybe you’re learning that it’s okay to accept that seeing Ulaz or somebody might be more helpful than trying to handle things alone?”

“…I deserve that,” Keith admits, ripping off another piece of danish. “It isn’t what I meant, but… Yeah, okay, point taken.”

*** * ***

After his Friday night meeting and some of the post-game coffee-talk, Shiro all but skips out to meet Ryou in the hallway. Almost immediately, Shiro finds himself on the receiving end of his brother’s scrunched up confusion face, the one he makes when he isn’t sure what’s happening, what it means, or if he might need to be concerned. Admittedly, Shiro has more pep in his step than usual. He’s smiling more than he ever does right on the heels of N.A., for sure, and he realizes that.

But yanking Ryou into a hug should make him do more than cautiously reciprocate and pat Shiro between the shoulder-blades. Furthermore, that kind of response shouldn’t feel like Ryou’s only giving it up for fear of upsetting Shiro if he holds out. Beaming at him should be cause for happiness, not an excuse for Ryou to frown like there’s something untoward afoot. How could there be anything going wrong when everything has such a full sense of promise and excitement to it, thrumming in the background or right below the surface, begging everyone to reach out and grab ahold.

None of which Shiro wants to vocalize right now, because Ryou’s already zeroing in on Shiro’s features like he’s trying to figure out if his brother seems unsteady or if his pupils are dilated. He shouldn’t find any real evidence, but in fairness, his anxiety could misconstrue a lot of things in infinite possible variations.

“I’m not on anything,” Shiro points out. “Except for my Effexor. I didn’t even need my Xanax today.”

Ryou nods, but he doesn’t stop squinting as if there’s something left to dig up.

Shiro rolls his eyes. “D’you want to smell my breath, too? I’m in a good mood, that’s it. And I had chicken shawarma for dinner.”

Drawing in a deep breath, Ryou takes a half-step back. “Okay, Kashi, I’m probably going to sound not very supportive right now? Like, at the risk of you feeling like I’m looking a gift horse in the mouth and all? But I swear I’m only asking this because I love you…”

He squeezes Shiro’s bicep so firmly, it almost hurts and doesn’t let up until Shiro nods in understanding. Not that there’s much here to be unclear about: Ryou wants his brother to tell the truth and he’s in no mood to get jerked around. There’s room for patience because he knows his Kashi doesn’t always have the best time with his feelings, but Ryou’s using the same tone of voice he used to break out when he suspected (usually not without good reason) that Shiro and Lotor’s latest “split” still involved them hooking up on the sly. Tonight, he can’t deal with being full-on lied to.

“Are you doing okay? Like, really, truly?” he asks, knotting up his brow and looking Shiro square in the eyes. “Because you sounded okay earlier, but then you wanted to know if I had plans tonight? And asked me to come meet you, but you didn’t come out right away? Which usually means that you’re staying for coffee-talk — which _can_ be good, and it _is_ good that you can open up to the group more? But historically, it tends to mean you are _not_ doing okay? And sometimes, you smile like this when things are legitimately terrible, so… Like I asked: are you okay?”

“I’m in a really good mood, like I said.” Shiro zips up his hoodie. Fixing Ryou’s scarf for him, he says, “Sorry I took so long, I didn’t think it’d be, like… But David and Neely wanted to ask about one of the last things I expected to come up today… Not in a bad way or anything or whatever, just in a way that took a bit of extra time.”

Which only makes Ryou frown harder and ask what David and Neely wanted, and why it took so long to talk about, and seriously, Kashi, is there something going on because it’s sorta sounding like there might be, Ryou isn’t feeling too secure about the idea that everything’s fine. Clearly, he’s on-edge about this so, Shiro laces their fingers together as he tugs his brother toward the door. Maybe that won’t chill Ryou out any more than verbal reassurances did, but the contact is nice. Hopefully, he’s at least reassured by the fact that Shiro’s being open about wanting it (relative to his usual standard, anyway). Maybe getting the answers he’s after will help out, too.

“They’re thinking about starting E.D.A. meetings at the center,” Shiro explains as they hit the sidewalk. When Ryou makes a noise that sounds borderline hopelessly lost, Shiro tacks on, “Eating Disorders Anonymous. Miranda’s never dealt with one, so she doesn’t feel like she can, in good conscience, take point in helping organize it. But David and Neely _have_ , and I’ve talked about mine before—”

“Wait, they don’t expect you to take the lead on things?” As they come toward a crosswalk, Ryou pulls his hand away so they can give more space to an exhausted-looking dog-walker. As they’re waiting for the light, he nudges against Shiro’s shoulder again. “Not that I think you can’t, I _know_ that you can. But you also have a lot going on right now?”

“Yeah, no, they’re not just appointing me the new group’s head out of nowhere. They were more asking if I’d be interested in attending. Since I said I would be, they asked if I’d be interested in helping out, and then we kinda… Got caught up chatting about some ideas.”

Checking his texts, Shiro can’t help feeling like the stoplights are taking longer than usual. Maybe not specifically to hold up this walk to the karaoke bar, but that’s definitely a side-effect (if a hypothetical one that is probably more in Shiro’s own head than not). Even though he’s most likely imagining things, Shiro has enough time to reply to Keith and Lance asking if he’s still up for karaoke after his meeting (Keith gets, _“Yeah, walking over with Ryou, we’ll be there soon ❤️”_ while Lance gets, _“If anything, I’m feeling even more up to it”_ ), and to Matt asking where he is and when he’ll get there ( _“On my way,”_ Shiro fires back. _“Coffee-talk went a little overtime by accident, won’t be long. You can sign the others up already if they’re getting antsy, just put me wherever in the order you want”_ ).

The stop signal hand’s still in place when Matt sends him, _“Fine, I’ll put the George Michael first”_

Shiro huffs. _“I mean relative to everyone else, Matthew. My two songs need to go like I told you”_

As the light finally lets them move along, Ryou sighs. “Who did what and broke which thing?”

“Nobody broke anything, Matt’s just being difficult.” Shiro shoves his hands in his pockets. “Also, we’re going to karaoke. He’s treating the signup list like a set-list for a show, and getting antsy because I’m not there yet but everybody else already is—”

“ _Wait_ up a minute,” Ryou says, but doesn’t stop walking. “ _Why_ are we going to karaoke?”

“Because it’s Friday night and karaoke’s _fun_ —”

“And who is, ‘everyone else’? Because Slav’s at our place, playing _Counter-Strike_ with Sven—”

“As if I would ever invite _Slav_ to karaoke.” Shaking his head, Shiro sighs. “Everyone else means Lance, Hunk, Pidge, and Matt. Then Hunk invited Shay, and she was going to come, but then I guess something came up with her parents? Either way, Allura’s still in — she’s Shay’s girlfriend and Keith’s best friend. Also, Keith’s going to be there. Because I asked him to come.”

“Okay, _hold the phone_ , Kashi…” Ryou catches Shiro by the elbow as if he has a point to make.

The problem for him is, Shiro can guess what point his brother has in mind and he doesn’t want to hear it. Sure, Ryou has a significant edge on Shiro purely in terms of mass, but they both know how to throw their strength around effectively. Besides, Shiro can deadlift heavier weights than Ryou, he can drag heavier weights than Ryou, and neither of them wants to hurt each other, so both of them are holding back significantly. Maybe Ryou doesn’t enjoy going to the gym, but if he had sufficient motivation, he could yank Shiro just right and have him on his back in a matter of seconds. Likewise, Shiro could put more effort into hauling Ryou around, but not without serious risk of hurting him or making him worry or (more likely) both. All up, they’re about evenly matched right now.

For a few moments, Ryou grumbles but lets Shiro tug him ahead toward the bar. As they pass a trash-can, though, he digs his heels in. Shiro keeps pulling, but Ryou grunts and reiterates that they are holding the phone. He tightens his grip and clears his throat in a way that screams, _“Get with the program and let me express my concern.”_ Slouching at the hips, Shiro lets himself groan. But it comes out sounding more like a whine, as if his vocal cords know that his protests couldn’t hold their own in a fight against a wet paper bag, and begrudgingly, he turns around.

“Let me get this straight—”

“I thought neither of us can get _anything_ straight, like—” Shiro cuts himself off, definitely whining at the way Ryou clamps down on his elbow. Struggling to jerk it away, Shiro acquiesces, “Okay, fine, I’m _sorry_ for the ill-timed attempt at levity. You’re trying to have a moment, the joke was in poor taste. We’re running late, can we _please_ stow your objections to this until later?”

“No. We can’t.” Although he lets Shiro go, Ryou squares his shoulders as he folds his arms over his chest. “Let me get this straight: Keith. _Your_ Keith. Short, cranky, cat-whisperer Keith whose family name I can never remember—”

“It’s _Kogane_. And come on, he is _not_ that short—”

“He is going to karaoke night with you—”

“I didn’t think he’d agree to it either, okay?” For all he doesn’t want to mirror Ryou’s posture, Shiro feels so much more at ease when he relents and hugs himself. The air’s nipping at the back of his neck tonight, and having his arms crossed over his chest makes him feel less like he’s making some kind of mistake by slouching. “But I told Keith that he didn’t need to say, ‘Yes’ to this. I told him he could opt out without me thinking it means anything — and he told me that he wanted to come tonight.”

“You _know_ I’m not trying to accuse you of being untoward in asking him, Kashi.”

“Yeah, but your _other_ objections are equally baseless!”

“But are they? Are they _really_?” Ryou quirks both eyebrows with palpable sarcasm, and worse, Shiro can’t even let himself groan. Doing that might give Ryou more room to think he’s right about this when he has no idea what he’s talking about. Or anyway, it might make him find even more reason for concern.

After a few moments, he sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “See, the fact that you don’t have a counterargument? Kinda makes me feel like my objections _aren’t_ baseless. Not least since I _vividly_ recall the aftermath of the _last_ time you and Keith went to karaoke together—”

“I _recognize_ that I made certain incredibly stupid decisions back then—”

“That’s an understatement—”

“—but given the extent to which alcohol and Vicodin _influenced_ those decisions, I don’t think we’re in danger of repeating history tonight.”

“Forgive me if I’m not feeling terribly reassured,” Ryou deadpans. “But see, you went, ‘No worries, brother, it’s all fine’ last time, too. Then you humped a mic stand all the way through a song that I told you not to sing. _Then_ , you decided Keith was rejecting your romantic overtures because he didn’t agree with your analysis about how, ‘I Want Your Sex’ was secretly a _love song_ —”

“Yes, but I’m _clean_ now, remember? I’m sober, I’m clear-headed—”

“You’re _lovesick_ and I think it _might_ affect your decision-making—”

“And I’m coming at this carefully, and with consideration. I’ve put in the thought ahead of time, I know what I’m doing, I…” Shiro huffs and flips his white fringe back off his face. “Oh my _God_ , why are you giving me that look like you think I’m gonna go jump off the nearest bridge? I’m trying to tell you how I know—”

“You’re telling me that you’ve made a _plan_ , aren’t you,” Ryou drawls.

While Shiro purses his lips and quirks his shoulders, Ryou loses the grimace like he thinks that his brother’s being actively self-destructive. Despite softening that little bit, he narrows his eyes like he’s still convinced that his Kashi is acting like a complete idiot. When Shiro offers nothing in his own defense, Ryou thwaps him on the shoulder with the back of his hand. It’s a bit like getting smacked with a plush toy from a rigged carnival game, but given Ryou, the impact is probably more the point than anything else.

“Oh my _God_ ,” he says. “After how things went with Keith last time, why the _Hell_ would you make a plan? Unless the plan is, ‘I am going to karaoke with Keith and we’re going to have a nice time and maybe he’ll come back to my place after’? But I don’t think it is—”

“It’s _not_ ,” Shiro whines. “Yes, I picked out my songs ahead of time. So I could do the _opposite_ of what I did last time—”

“Kashi, I swear to God, if you sing, ‘Careless Whisper’ at him tonight—”

“I’m not going to!” Which should be fine, but Shiro yields enough to add, “Hunk and Lance already talked me out of that one—”

“Good! Because it isn’t even remotely appropriate for your situation—”

“ _Duly. Noted. Ryou._ I got hung up on seeing the song as an expression of guilt and remorse. But Hunk and Lance pointed out that it’d probably be confusing for Keith, since it’s being sung after a break-up and we are really clearly _not_ broken up, so like…” Hugging himself tighter, Shiro shrugs. “I _am_ doing one of St. George’s other songs tonight, though. And one of Olivia Newton-John’s. So… yeah. There’s that.”

“Let me see if I’m following you.” Ryou drums his fingertips along his elbow. “Your plan to _avoid_ repeating history — to do the exact opposite of what you did before, as you say? Your big idea here is to pick the _exact same artists_ you dug yourself a hole with back then, but to pick different songs of theirs and — what? Hope that Keith gets the intended significance—”

“Not _entirely_! I also plan to talk to him about it after, if he wants to talk. Y’know, as people in relationships do.” Again, Shiro has probably given Ryou enough detail. But Ryou’s still squinting at him warily, so Shiro tacks on, “Like I told you, though? I’m sober now. And Keith and I have been working things out, so I feel like I’m doing a better job of getting on his wavelength—”

“Well, I don’t want to see you do something hasty and screw that up, okay?”

As he lets go of himself, Ryou makes a sound like he’s trying to hold back a sigh. Looking Shiro in the eye, Ryou squeezes his shoulder. A breeze rustles Shiro’s ponytail and the dead leaves scattered around the pavement. Shiro shrinks in around himself — not enough for most people to think he’s doing that, but too much for Ryou to miss it — and he wishes he could chalk it up to the bite that’s on the wind. He wishes that he could point his finger at the shorter days or pass the buck to the looming threat of winter, and condemn them for making his skin crawl and his insides writhe like he has a nest of vipers hiding in the pit of his stomach.

He can’t blame the weather for how he’s feeling, though. Pinning responsibility for his emotions on the cold holds less water than saying that he saw Goody Proctor consorting with Satan and the Commies. Especially since Shiro _knows_ that his discomfort is coming from the wide-eyed, earnest look that’s twisting up his brother’s full mouth and chubby cheeks. More than one of their standard, _“I love you”s_ and several magnitudes worse than simple brotherly concern, Ryou’s expression has that all-too-familiar glimmer of _belief_ behind it, and all of it is aimed on one target: Shiro. His lips quiver and his eyes gleam like he believes in Shiro so much that it could kill him.

Before he can think of doing _anything_ , Shiro needs a moment to breathe and remind himself that Ryou isn’t going to die from having hope or from refusing to give up on his brother. At least, not literally. Which is good, because Shiro’s life is better with Ryou in it.

Except this reminder doesn’t help much, because Shiro’s still left blinking at the warm and weirdly open, glowing not-quite-smile that says, without any room for argument or doubt, that Ryou still believes in Shiro more than he ever did in Jesus, or Santa Claus, or true love, or their parents. He’s still left digging his fingertips into his own arm, feeling about three inches tall because every bit of him feels like he can’t handle the responsibility of making Ryou proud of him, but Ryou insistently disagrees. After everything that’s happened — every mess of Shiro’s that he’s had to clean up, every lie that Shiro’s ever told him about being fine and having things handled on his own, every low point that Ryou’s seen his brother hit and thought, _“This has got to be rock bottom, it cannot get any lower from here”_ until Shiro found a way to make things worse — and even in the face of an idea he openly thinks is terrible, Ryou still believes with all his heart that Shiro is more and _better_ than all the ways that he’s screwed up before.

Swallowing thickly and going pale, Shiro looks down at the sidewalk. God, there goes the good mood. All the progress that he’s made since getting out of Chicago, and he _still_ gets this frozen, nauseated feeling when Ryou looks at him like this. He nods when Ryou squeezes his shoulder again, but shuffles closer to him instead of looking up.

“Kashi, please.” Ryou’s pout is audible as he wraps his arms around his brother. It abates only slightly when Shiro leans into the embrace, hugging Ryou around the chest and burying his face in Ryou’s shoulder. “I know how much working things out with Keith means to you. And it’s good for you to do that. And I’m glad you’re in an emotional place where he can mean so much to you without you feeling like any setback with him is the end of the world. I’m _so. happy_. that you can be with him because you _love_ him and _not_ because you feel like you _need_ him…”

Sighing softly, Ryou noses at Shiro’s temple. He whispers, “But I also know that you would be _miserable_ if you ran into something without thinking and felt like you ruined everything. Not least since that’s exactly what happened after he came to your last show.”

Nodding, Shiro can’t deny that Ryou’s right on the money. “But I’m _not_ rushing headlong into this stunt, okay?” He drags himself up, but only pulls back enough so he can look Ryou in the eye without seeing double. “I was thinking about this since before Keith and I got on the same page about how we feel. I was thinking about it before I read his essay about us. All that did about this plan was make me think about it _more_ , because it turns out? He’s still upset about what we did to each other that night, too—”

“Okay, but to me? That sounds like a really good reason to _not_ attach any particular significance to your songs tonight, like?” Ryou huffs and grumbles for a moment, looking like he’s digging for the right way to phrase things. “Couldn’t you show him that things are gonna be different by just singing ‘Der Kommissar’ or ‘Don’t Stop Me Now,’ maybe dedicating him an inoffensive, silly love song that doesn’t mean anything special, and having a good time?”

“Yeah, that could work? But then Keith could get hung up on the significance anyway. I didn’t even mean for ‘Physical’ to be about him or us last time and he thought that it was… I mean, part of that was apparently from me winking at him, but I didn’t think anything of it… Largely because I was drunk as a skunk that fell into a distillery and acting like an _idiot_ , but…” Shiro sighs and lets his eyes slip shut. He bumps his forehead into Ryou’s, less to reassure Ryou that he’s okay and more to remind himself that Ryou’s here.

“I’ve thought about this,” Shiro says, smiling ever-so-slightly as Ryou nudges him back. “Keith might not be _deliberately_ looking for significance tonight, but he might find it anyway, no matter what I do. At least if I _intend_ for some to be there, we can talk out what it means instead of, like? Going, ‘I didn’t mean anything’ and disagreeing on whether that means I wasn’t thinking about him at all?”

“Brother, if Keith doesn’t get how often you think about him, then I don’t know what to do for him anymore.” Ryou doesn’t roll his eyes, but his tone makes it clear that he wants to. “Would it help if I backed you up? Because I mean, I have stories… They’re mostly indisputable, aside from being hearsay and technically inadmissible in court… I can easily embarrass you in front of your boyfriend for the sake of helping strengthen your relationship…”

Snorting, Shiro manages a grin. A lopsided one, it feels like, but at least it’s better than frowning while he shakes his head.

“Probably wouldn’t help,” he mutters. “Keith — at the risk of this sounding bad? Keith doesn’t really mean it, when he assumes other people don’t think about him, even when we do. He’s just… He’s so used to people _not_ thinking about him, and he’s used to fending for himself, and he’s working on it? But he’s also only getting started on that work, so…?”

With a snicker, Shiro gives Ryou another squeeze and wriggles away. As he resumes heading toward the bar, Shiro says, “Save humiliating me to make a point for after Keith’s gotten into a better place, himself? Like, a more emotionally stable place? And save the _pointless_ humiliation for, I dunno, Christmas at Aunt Satomi’s?”

“He’s coming to Christmas this year?”

“I mean, I haven’t _asked_ him yet, but… Aside from me and Allura, he doesn’t really have anybody to be with for the holidays? And if he’d rather be with her and her parents, that’s fine. But I’m still gonna ask, at least.”

Ryou hums awkwardly. “How did he get along with Slav when he brought you lunch?”

“They didn’t really talk that much?” Shiro shrugs and tucks the white fringe behind his ear. “I mean, I think Slav was avoiding him for any of the usual Slav reasons. And Keith’s only heard about Slav from me, Lance, Hunk, and Pidge, so he has a bias. But he was asleep for the most time that they spent in the same room, and he really needed some rest, so I wasn’t gonna wake him up just to introduce him to Slav properly?”

“Okay, well…” A crosswalk stops them and Ryou prods an elbow at Shiro’s side. “I already told Slav that he’s not going back to _his_ family’s holiday get-together? Not after what happened last year. He could still go out to Oslo with Sven, but that depends on him remembering to renew his passport on time—”

“Plus, if he did that, _you’d_ be getting calls in the middle of the night instead of Sven—”

“And Aunt Satomi’s already fine with Slav coming along, but…” Another gentle bumping of shoulders. “Are _you_?”

“The upside of Christmas is that Slav will have more people to focus on than me.” Still, as the light changes, Shiro can’t ignore that Ryou’s concerns are fair enough. “I’ll deal with it. I may not _like_ the idea very much? But I don’t like what I’ve heard about Slav’s family either and he shouldn’t have to be around them when he has the option to be anywhere else. But while we’re on the subject of the weirdos we’re in love with and inviting back to Christmas at Satomi’s?”

Shiro curls a hand around Ryou’s elbow, so he’ll get the point that this is serious. “ _Please_ don’t call Keith my boyfriend where he can hear you do it,” Shiro hisses. “Yeah, that’s how I want things to go. And I’m treating my, ‘I want to be with you’ to him as a promise of monogamy. But the word, ‘boyfriend’ means a lot to Keith. Serious commitment, for one thing. And he associates it with our relationship being more _real_ , which is all kind of like…”

Another crosswalk holds them up, and Shiro lets his head droop toward Ryou’s. “Keith has a lot going on for him right now. I _want_ to call him my boyfriend. It’d be easier and it can mean whatever we want it to mean? I feel like it’d be true? But we haven’t talked about it yet. And I don’t want to push the label or discussing it on him at the moment. Not when he has so much difficult work ahead of him already…”

Shiro huffs. “For now, it’s enough for me that things with us are more _Facebook_ complicated than legitimately tangled and messy.”

Although Ryou refrains from comment until the light changes, he supposes that he can see his Kashi’s point. Moreover, he feels that it shouldn’t be hard for him to hold his tongue about whether or not Keith is Shiro’s boyfriend at the moment, or to find other terms to use.

“Waiting for you two to get there is better than waiting for you to get that he doesn’t hate you.”

“Duly noted. But that _felt_ real at the time—”

“I also promise not to interrogate him about his intentions with you.” Snickering, Ryou gives his brother a playful smirk. “If he’s anything like how he used to be, Keith’ll be perfectly obvious about those anyway.”

*** * ***

Meeting Matt over dinner, the first thing Keith thinks is that he and Pidge are unarguably related. Sure, Matt’s taller (about the same height as Lance) and allegedly isn’t on the spectrum. He prefers contact lenses to wearing glasses, and his shaggy, chin-length hair is such a light shade of brown that it’s practically blond. But once Shiro gets the awkward introductions out of the way, Matt launches right into info-dumping about how he’s heard _so much_ about Keith and it’s _amazing_ to finally put a face to the name.

“ _Sooooo_ , why _did_ it take us so long to meet each other?” Matt prods, blinking at Keith owlishly with a set of amber-brownish eyes that are all but outright identical to his sister’s. “I mean, you were with Shiro back on Chicago too, so—”

“You never _wanted_ to come back to our place,” Shiro points out, quirking an eyebrow. “Or go out to bars with us.”

“My, my, how the turns have tabled,” Pidge deadpans. “How’s the latest boyfriend you met at Church again, Matt?”

“Hey, he is not my _boyfriend_ ,” Matt protests, with a rosy blush that almost begs to differ (but it might not really be doing that, and Keith can’t quite tell). “I’ve had sex with Vakala and a date, and we’ve hung out a bit, and we are playing it by ear from there. Anyway, _somebody_ around here should act like a rockstar, since none of you wants to do it. I mean, Lance gets _close_ , but he doesn’t _quite_ go all the way—”

“That’s not what it says on the bathroom wall,” snarks Pidge. “Plus, Sven would beg to differ—”

“Hey, I am not a slut!” Lance is turning red and only lowers the volume when Hunk squeezes his shoulder. “I’m a _charmer_. A _loverboy_. Seriously, just because I don’t have coke parties and don’t usually fuck on the first date, it’s like? I go all the way with my _performances_ , which is where it _counts_ —”

“I don’t have coke parties, either.” Matt shrugs, grinning at Lance like they’ve had this argument (or a variant of it) who-knows-how-many times before. “Have you seen that stuff? It gets everywhere, all over everything — it’s even worse than _sand_ — but anyway, what’s the point of being a rockstar if you don’t enjoy it?”

“I think Lance enjoys acting like it onstage and on Twitter, more than in reality,” Keith chimes in with a smirk. “Anyway, I don’t think VH1 makes _Behind the Music_ specials for techies. But who knows, Matt? Maybe you could be the first.”

After Shiro leaves for his meeting, there’s time to kill until they can get into karaoke room at the bar Matt likes on Church Street. Once they’re in, though, Matt’s apparent mindset switches from would-be rockstar to what Keith assumes is his managerial, tech crew way of handling things. Aside from noting down the songs that everyone wants and using a different colored pen for each person ( _“Because what are we, animals?”_ the Holts chirp in perfect unison), Matt refuses to simply collect the sign-up fees and tips from everyone and go give their choices to the KJ. Apparently, his reluctance to get a move on has something to do with how Shiro isn’t here yet and Matt needing to make sure their songs are in the right order.

“Because there even _is_ such a thing?” Keith lets himself ask, wrinkling his nose.

“Normally, it doesn’t matter _quite_ as much,” Matt acquiesces, scratching out something on his clipboard. “It’s usually all, ‘First come, first serve’ and so on, but… Te-Osh is a good friend. And I pay her extra to let me draw up set-lists when we come here. We’ll still end up sprinkled between other patrons, but…”

Matt throws Keith a lopsided smile that he probably wishes looked roguish and daring. “Fret not, we’ll have our songs straight. I mean, relative to the present company, anyway. So, straightened out in the right order, not like _straight_ straight—”

“Okay, we _get it_ ,” Lance groans. “Nobody here is hetero, like we don’t already know that. _Bless_ your powers of observation.”

As much as Keith doesn’t want to say so, this is a pretty weird mood for Lance to be in. Karaoke seems like the sort of thing that he should live for. After all, he gets to have the spotlight on him exclusively for however many minutes are in his chosen song(s) and he can spend said minutes doing pretty much whatever he wants. Slouching on the table with his face resting in his palm, Lance looks like he’d rather be literally anywhere but here and so far, he and Keith are the only ones who’ve had any of the bar-snacks that the group put in orders for. Keith’s pretty sure that no one else has had any of the garlic knots. Their basket’s sitting right by Lance’s elbow, and he has his shoulders hunched like he might pounce on anyone who tries to take his knots away.

On top of that, Lance can be definitely an argumentative asshole, but as far as Keith’s seen, he only snaps like this at one person. Namely, Keith himself. Although Matt furrows his brow, he doesn’t seem too ruffled about Lance’s attitude. Still, while he, Hunk, and Lance are running to the bar for more food and refills on people’s drinks, Keith elbows at Pidge. Maybe it’s none of his business. Maybe he should let it go instead of pushing about it. Maybe they’re gonna need to talk about this over-top of some hipster in skinny jeans vocally murdering “Bohemian Rhapsody” like he’s drunk enough to entertain to think he has Freddie Mercury’s range and timing. But if Keith’s found the one person who Lance hates more than him, then _Goddamn_ , he wants to know that.

“Okay, well, first of all? Lance doesn’t actually hate you. Or Matt, for that matter. He hates _Lotor_ , but then again, so do most people.” Which is good overall — except for the distinctly unnerving, indecipherable edge to Pidge’s voice and the pointed way she pushes her glasses back up her nose. “Lance is… incredibly, overwhelmingly insecure. About several things and in a lot of different ways—”

“Yeah, I got that when we bonded over thinking we aren’t good enough for the guys who we’re in love with—”

“Which you most certainly _are_ ,” Allura chimes in, kicking Keith’s ankle under the table.

“Well, Hunk is actually pretty relevant to why Lance is being… like this. And Shiro, too.” Pidge sighs like it’s taking Herculean effort for her not to leave this explanation at something more simple and straightforward like, _“Boys are stupid.”_

Scooting closer to him, she steals a cheese fry off Keith’s plate. As she goes on, she waves it around like a magic wand. “One of the things Lance does when he gets insecure? He starts getting competitive. Until six months ago, Shiro was dating Lotor on and off for almost four years—”

Allura cringes and allows herself to shudder in palpable disgust. Considering what she’s told Keith lately about how her parents used to be friends with Lotor’s, and how she’s known him distantly for years and he has been some kind of jackass for the majority of that time, Keith can’t blame her for looking like a little kid sicked up all over her favorite heels.

“Well, when he and Lotor were _off_ ,” Pidge continues, undaunted, “Shiro’s had certain standing arrangements with Lance and Matt. For no strings attached, platonic making out. Because he and Lance are both secretly affectionate and almost always need some kind of reassurance. And Matt’s more emotionally stable than they are, but he really likes making out. So, there’s one thing making Lance feel like he and Matt are in a competition with each other when they aren’t. As for the _other_ thing…”

Somehow, Pidge manages to look professorial as she dunks her fry in ranch dressing. “Matt and Hunk kinda sorta dated for a while. After Hunk and Shay broke up. It wasn’t really serious or anything, and it ended amicably, but well…” Rolling her eyes, Pidge tells them, “Lance is in love with Hunk. And I guess he’s working on the jealousy thing with Ulaz ‘cause he _doesn’t_ want to let it control him so much? But that’s a process and for now, he’s _definitely_ still jealous of how Matt has _actually_ been Hunk’s boyfriend before. Even though he’s smart enough to have gotten the whole, ‘Matt asked Hunk out instead of pining after him’ point way earlier than he did.”

“In fairness, it can be hard to get there when you’re so convinced that you’re gonna be turned down. Not that I’m defending Lance or taking his side or anything, but…” Keith shrugs and picks up a cheese fry for himself. “I _am_ saying that I get why he didn’t come clean with Hunk ’til recently.”

“So, you aren’t defending _Lance_ ,” Pidge drawls, “but you _are_ defending yourself in a way that _sounds_ like defending Lance.”

“If you wanna be on the nose about it, sure. Whatever you say.”

Huffing, Keith squints at the screen that’s been announcing whose turn it is to sing and who’s up next after them. Then, he frowns down at his phone and _sighs_. It’s pushing ten o’clock, another hipster’s shambling to the stage so they can sing Bonnie Tyler’s “Holding Out For A Hero,” and Shiro still isn’t here yet. He hasn’t sent any further texts, either. According to his last one, he’s walking over with Ryou, which means that they _probably_ aren’t in any real danger because Ryou’s better at staying out of trouble. They’re running later than they’re supposed to be, but at least it’s not very likely for them to have gotten into any big messes that require saving and/or rescue by a would-be knight in beat-up sneakers because he left his matte-finish combat boots at his apartment. All the same, though—

“Who wants to bet that Ryou’s trying to talk his brother out of coming tonight?”

Allura shrugs, sucking a plump juniberry off of the plastic sword that she got with her cherry Coke. “I have yet to _meet_ your beau’s brother,” she points out primly. “All I know of him is secondhand _and_ it mostly comes from you. Of course I trust you. But you _are_ biased about Ryou.”

“Yeah, but not in a way where I think he’d try to keep me and Shiro _separated_. Or like he’d try to make us into Romeo and Julian, or whatever.” Keith slouches onto his elbows and explains, “I’m only biased in a way where I think that Shiro’s _obviously_ the more interesting twin. And I don’t share Ryou’s taste in pleasure reading—”

“Hey, I’m not holding Stephen King against him for the next little while,” Pidge says. “He hooked me up with some old books that his brother didn’t want anymore and didn’t make any fuss about me wanting to read them. He _did_ warn me off of _Fifty Shades_ , but at least Ryou’s roommate destroyed Shiro’s old copy of that one—”

“Actually, that was me and Shiro.” Under Pidge’s incredulous squinting, Keith only shrugs. “What? We were drunk. He’d just had a fight with Maurice. I was hoping it might turn into an actual breakup. So, when he started in on comparing Maurice to Christian Gray, I got the brilliant idea to go set his copy of the first _Fifty Shades_ book on fire in a vacant lot.”

“Well, he must’ve gotten a new one after you guys did that, because I’ve seen the weirdo, collage-looking mess that Slav made out of it.” For a moment, Pidge’s eyebrows leap up and she leans around Keith to look at something by either the exit or the bar.

But she’s back to grinning at him soon enough. “Anyway, though, when would you say you first fell in love with Shiro?”

“I _know_ you’ve read my essay for Ryner, Pidge. Allura has, too.” When that only makes her give him a starry-eyed, pleading pout, Keith sighs. “It was when I jumped him after getting my GED scores. I got excited and accidentally realized I’d caught feelings for the guy who was, at the time, pretty much my only friend.”

“Okay, but what made you realize that?” she needles, giving Keith a smug smirk that makes no sense — but hey, Pidge isn’t hurting anybody, so as long as she’s enjoying herself, she can make whatever face she wants. “Or, more generally, what are some things you love _best_ about Shiro?”

Keith blinks at Pidge, then at Allura. She pulls a wide-eyed, slightly guilty face like Keith caught her trying to break into her Father’s home-office, but shrugs as if Pidge’s question isn’t all that odd. It still seems like that, to Keith. He’s pretty sure that there are more effective ways for him to distract them from the current round of terrible singing going on. Or they could complain about it together. Judging the hipster onstage is probably pretty rude, though, and there could be a chance of getting overhead — which might be why Pidge and Allura are going for a weirder option. Sighing, Keith slumps back in his seat and brings his empty cup back with him.

Spinning the straw between his fingers, he says, “I mean, why does anyone ever fall in love with anybody? He was kind. He was smart, but he wasn’t a jerk about it like a lot of former gifted and talented prodigy kids can be. He’s brave, and creative, and he makes me smile. He can’t stand letting other people suffer. He believed in me so much that it scared me sometimes? But also made me think I was _allowed_ to want something other than what I thought my life was doomed to be forever, and like…”

Keith grumbles and blows at a stray bit of hair. “It’s like the opposite of that one song from _Les Mis_? I thought my life was going to be Hell until I died, then he made me believe that maybe it didn’t have to be, and maybe that’s not the _number one_ thing I love best about him? But I’d say it’s pretty high up the list?”

“So, what _is_ the number one thing on that list?” Allura briefly glances aside, then grins and toes at Keith’s ankle as if she’s up to something. “Perhaps you could give us a top ten? Top fifteen? Top however many items you like?”

“God, am I being interviewed for the Valentine’s Day issue of _Idiots In Love Magazine_?” When wrinkling his nose doesn’t make Allura and Pidge stop smiling at him so expectantly, Keith huffs and drags his fingers back through his bangs. “No, but seriously: you two are going in for the kill with a question like that.”

Pidge pipes up, “Well, I think it’s a perfectly valid question, Princess.”

“I didn’t say it wasn’t _valid_ , I’m just like…” Trying to protest is getting Keith nowhere slowly. He groans, but it’s probably better to play along and get this over with. “Okay, these are in no particular order, but? One: I love his smile, especially the way it seems more genuine, more of the time, these days. Two: I love his voice, like? If he ever gave me an mp3 player loaded up with your guys’ music and all his old stuff, I’d probably never stop listening to it. Three: I love his hands. They’re huge, which definitely took me some getting used to before, but he knows what he’s doing with them, like…”

Groaning, Keith flicks a fingertip at the back of Pidge’s head. “ _Not like that_. Get your head out of his old erotica if you’re gonna ask me shit like this.”

“Sorry, _sorry_ ,” she snickers, sounding about as honest as Pinocchio. “You were saying?”

“I was _trying_ to say I wasn’t used to somebody with hands like that being as _gentle_ as Shiro can be. But then, I also wasn’t used being jealous of a _guitar_ because I wanted him to love _me_ that much, so…” Keith shrugs and puts his glass back on the table. As he leans his head back, he closes his eyes. The person onstage now is singing Christina Aguilera and he needs to focus or all he’s gonna think about is Shiro writhing around the stage at Galaxy Garrison’s last show.

“Four: I love his arms? I mean, it helps that they’re not a giant map of bruises anymore, but even then, they were beautiful. Five: I love his dumb jokes. I don’t always _like_ them very much, because sometimes, I don’t get them? Then, other times, they skirt too close to things I can’t see the humor in because it’s like, ‘I understand you’re dealing with a lot, but forgive me if I’m sensitive about whether or not you might be feeling suicidal again.’ But he gets so _proud of himself_ when he makes one of his stupid cracks about something, even before anybody laughs at it, and it’s just?” Keith folds his arms over his chest and rubs at his elbow. “I don’t know what to call it, but he’s such a dweeb and I love it about him.”

“Well, for what it’s worth?” Allura says, not exactly teasing. “I think he would understand the way you love his sense of humor.”

Keith continues as if she hasn’t said anything: “Six: I love the fact that he’s a bonafide genius except that it vaporizes once he’s in a kitchen, but he still wants to _try_. Seven: I love the little snort he does when he laughs. Eight: I love what a nightmare he is in the morning. Like, ‘Shiro, it’s time to get up.’ ‘No, five more minutes.’ ‘Shiro, I have to get breakfast before I go to class, let me get out of bed.’ ‘ _Noooo_ , what if I cuddle you and attack you with my gross, scratchy morning kisses instead, will that distract you from being a responsible adult?’”

“The answer to which is, ‘yes.’” Allura chuckles, and she make Pidge snicker again.

“Nine: I don’t _like_ the fact that it took him four years to get his one-year sobriety chip? But I love the fact that he hasn’t given up on it, no matter how hard it’s been and no matter how much he’s wanted to. I love that in general, like? He’s open to compromise, but he’s still so damn _stubborn_ , and that’s not always great? But I’d rather be with somebody who sticks to their guns and holds to their convictions than with someone who doesn’t believe in _anything_ …”

Keith smiles. It’s only a small one for the time being, but it’s more than he usually gets, which is worth some kind of celebrating. “That’s one of the things I love most about you too, Princess. Your nerve, your courage, the way you stand up and fight for your ideals. I mean, I love that about you even when you’re getting in totally pointless academic flame-wars with Hira.”

Allura huffs. “I haven’t let her bait me like that in almost two weeks and you _know_ it.”

“Which is _better_ for you, but still. You and Shiro can both be so _fierce_ about the things that you believe in, which is what I’m talking about…” Except now, Keith lets himself sigh again. Hugging himself tighter, he bristles against the back of his chair. “Anyway, for number ten… I don’t know? There are a lot of things I could say and they’d be true, but it’s kind of like, ‘Maybe they’re true but do they really deserve the last spot on this list?’”

There’s a round of golf-clapping from the crowd as Keith tries to think of an answer. As some song he doesn’t recognize starts up, he supposes, “I guess the number ten spot would just be, like? His _je ne sais quoi_.”

“You _know_ that just means, ‘I do not know what’ in French, right?”

“I know, Pidge. That’s kinda the point.” Eyes still closed, Keith leans his head back so far that he’d be looking at the ceiling, if he felt like looking at anything. “What I’m saying is that I don’t really have another _single_ thing that I love about Shiro? Parceling everything about him out into separate pieces is like… I don’t know, I feel like it misses something? The whole of Shiro is different from the sum of his parts, and I love _all of him_.”

“Awww, I love you too, baby.”

Keith’s eyes snap open. Instead of the ceiling, he sees Shiro smiling down at him.

Squeezing Keith’s shoulder, Shiro tells him, “And you try to act like you’re not sweet.”

“I’m _not_ , but arguing with you about it hasn’t gotten me anywhere. So, y’know, I agree to disagree with your belief that I’m sweet.” As Shiro gently brushes Keith’s bangs off of his forehead, Keith asks, “How much of that did you hear?”

“First thing I heard you saying was something about the time you got your GED scores and kissed me?” Even looking upside down, Shiro’s soft, just-for-Keith smile makes Keith’s heart stutter. “For what it’s worth, I _do_ love you. Though I like hearing you talk about me more when you’re not having your arm twisted by certain _Katies_ who shall remain nameless.”

“ _Hey_!” Pidge squawks. “You were taking forever to get here, I thought maybe you were having a bad night!”

“I appreciate what you wanted to do,” Shiro tells her, settling into the chair at Keith’s left-hand side. He curls an arm around Keith’s shoulders and kisses Keith’s temple. “But I’m fine, Pidge. I got a bit distracted at the post-meeting coffee-talk. Then, Ryou wanted to talk while we were getting here. He kinda held us up.”

“I stand by that, Kashi. I’m not going to apologize for caring about my _only_ brother or his emotional well-being.”

With only a nod and a noncommittal smile toward Keith, Ryou slips into an open seat by Allura and wrestles himself out of his jacket. Tucking himself up against Ryou’s brother’s side, Keith can’t make out much about the less interesting twin that looks terribly different. He introduces himself to Allura with minimal interjecting from Shiro, sure, but that could mean less that literally anything about Ryou has changed too much and more that he’s making a specific effort to be more sociable tonight. He might’ve gained weight, but Keith has too, so who is he to judge. His hair might be different? If so, it’s not by that much. He still keeps it cut short without being completely shaved off, and there’s still a longer tuft at the front, looking like Ryou plastered a black rabbit’s tail to to his forehead. If Ryou’s going to insist on having an ugly haircut, he could at least do something fun with it. Maybe bleach the front part white to match Shiro’s forelock.

—Except Keith’s cheeks flush hot and he has to cringe at that thought. Groaning softly, he buries his face in Shiro’s neck.

“I just caught myself thinking like _Lance_ ,” he admits when Shiro asks what’s wrong. “About Ryou’s stupid haircut.”

“You know I can hear you, right? I am literally sitting right here.” Ryou sounds like he’s pointedly arching an eyebrow and he probably wants some kind of eye-contact. For now, though, that only makes Keith cling tighter to Shiro’s side.

Which, in turn, makes Ryou grumble wearily. “Kashi, will you please tell your, ‘it’s complicated’ that he doesn’t need to burrow into your shoulder like a meerkat? I’m not mad at him, I was only pointing out that the rest of world continues existing when the two of you are in the same room. Also, that I am _literally_ sitting right here, at the same table and perfectly within earshot.”

Shiro huffs and kisses Keith’s forehead. “Ryou would like you to know that he isn’t upset. He’s just being cranky and kind of a brat because Slav is playing video games with Sven tonight. And he likes his haircut even though almost no one else does—”

“I think it looks nice,” Allura chimes in. “The little piece in the front looks very soft.”

“Also, he misses you engaging with the rest of the world, even if he’s abrasive and still can’t remember your last name.”

“Oh, _I’m_ the one who’s being a brat?” Ryou drawls. “That is almost nothing like what I told you to say.”

“Yes, because I embellished somewhat.” Shiro quirks his shoulders. When Keith pulls himself back up, Shiro’s wearing a lopsided _come-at-me_ smirk that he typically saves special for these moments of being a dweeb with his brother. “Anyway, you _are_ cranky about Slav and Sven having a _Counter-Strike_ party, so it’s not like I’m lying.”

Ryou rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “Where the Hell is Matt? I’m here anyway, I might as well sign-up for ‘Call Me Maybe.’”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And since I did promise to explain why there’s a definite endpoint to this fic now: there’s a lot more to the story than is going to be in this fic. My original notion was to have everything just collected in one fic, instead. But I’ve been considering this on and off for a while, and…… Well, you know how many chapters have gotten split up in this fic?
> 
> That’s basically what happened here. I looked at everything that I wanted to do and went, “Okay, if I don’t split this up, I’m going to drown under the weight of all the things I’m trying to cram into this and end up with a million-plus word fic and cry. Then, I will probably never write anything more for it ever again because I put too much pressure on myself about it. How about let’s skip that and make choices that lead to us living in the reality where I actually finish the story?”
> 
>  **TL;DR:** The main story got split up into three parts now. This is the first of them and it’s nearly done. Next, comes part two. After that, part three. Throughout it all, there will probably be more side-pieces here and there, like **“[you’d kill me if you could stand the sight of blood](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12269214/)”** — because lord help me, there are more pieces of this AU that I want to explore more fully even though they aren’t really part of the main story, and there are a handful of “cut-scenes” that I don’t _like_ leaving out of the main story but trying to fit them in has proven messy.
> 
> [As I sort of explained over here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11717574/comments/135609777), there’s still an element of things being made up as I go with this story. I have my outline for the rest of this fic and it’s set, with a bit of room for things coming up as I write.
> 
> (That said: those things generally aren’t Huge Deal Scenes that could unsettle the rest of the story. They’re more like a scene with Hunk and Keith in chapter 19 that wasn’t in the original plan but I decided that there needed to be another moment before Hunk and Lance get to where they are at the end of that chapter. Then I liked it, so I kept it, especially since one of the “cut-scenes” that I mentioned happens between the two of them, and I wanted to keep it in, but it was throwing off my attempts to balance everything else.)
> 
> Part two has a pretty detailed idea but also more room to fill things in; I’ve figured out several of its major pieces and themes, as well as several scenes that I’m working on tying together. Part three has a loosely sketched out idea that part two is working on building toward — but a lot of it is also either amorphous at present or up in the air, pending how some things go in part two. There are also more choices for part three that I need extra time to ponder as a writer because they _are_ pretty Huge Deal Choices that I don’t want to make lightly.
> 
> —and then the kitchen sink was there too, and that’s the way we all became the Brady Bunch?!
> 
> ……Sorry, I had no idea how else to end that tirade. So, now that I’ve made things sufficiently awkward, I’m gonna click, “Post Without Preview” and get back to wrapping up chapter 19 so it can go up today too, and then chapter 20 can come along as quickly as possible after that ~~not least because y’all, Shiro, and Keith have been waiting more than long enough for what happens in chapter 20~~. See you lot next time on this same Bat-Channel. ♡


	19. there’s no use in fighting the fire you’ve ignited

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title shamelessly ripped off from the lyrics of Dolly Parton’s “Baby I’m Burnin’,” for the exact same karaoke-flavored reason that the last chapter had its title ripped off from Olivia Newton-John.

On one hand, Shiro guesses it’s a good thing that Matt doesn’t keep them waiting terribly long. Barely a minute after Ryou gets tetchy about how their self-appointed list-master isn’t missing, he, Lance, and Hunk swoop in with two trays of drinks and snacks. The fact that they carried these things over instead of getting them delivered to the table isn’t ideal. But as Hunk tells it, that _was_ the plan until Matt wanted to make sure that the orders all came out right just in case anything needed fixing and Lance insisted on carrying the heavier tray so Hunk didn’t have to.

On the other hand, Matt’s re-entrance means Shiro disentangling himself from Keith and heading to the bar with Matt.

Regardless of context, wriggling away from Keith is other than a favored pastime. It doesn’t help nearly enough to remember that Shiro’s currently doing it in the name of finalizing the order of songs before Matt gives the list to Te-Osh, and keeping Keith’s surprise from getting spoiled because he happened to glimpse of Matt’s clipboard.

Still, it could easily be worse. Keith’s in a good enough mood to steal a warm, firm kiss before letting Shiro go. In addition to Keith being in decent spirits, the kiss is its own kind of nice. He snakes a hand around to the back of Shiro’s neck, buries his fingers in Shiro’s hair without any concern for how it loosens Shiro’s ponytail, and holds onto this until he makes Shiro whine for want of air. Half-dazed, Shiro needs Matt to tug on his hoodie before he remembers that — oh, right, they’re supposed to be going back because Shiro and Ryou don’t have drinks and Matt thinks they underestimated how many mozzarella sticks the table needs. Yeah, very little about the present moment is even in the remote vicinity of bad.

But once they order Ryou’s Cherry Coke, Shiro’s Diet-and-Lime, Matt’s virgin Sex On The Beach, and the extra basket of finger-food, Shiro slumps onto the bar. Propped up on his elbows, he barely manages to hold back the sigh currently building in his chest. Nothing about the situation makes him want to drink or go get high. Not the stuffiness without warmth that makes Shiro roll back his sleeves but won’t let him shed his hoodie yet. Not the woman sitting a few stools down, or the way she makes eyes at Shiro until he turns in her direction and unzips enough to let her see the words on his shirt: _“Sounds GAY, I’m In”_ with a rainbow-striped pattern filling in the word, _“GAY.”_ Not even blinking vacantly at the liquor bottles lined up along the wall — which feels, if anything, suspiciously absent of any feeling.

Except there’s still a chilly feeling in the pit of Shiro’s chest, like boa constrictors made out of ice going to town on his lungs. Every breath he takes feels like a miracle, like he shouldn’t be able to breathe at all. It doesn’t feel like an oncoming panic — there’s no crawling sensation along his skin and nothing twisting around his stomach, his heartbeat feels normal, his thoughts aren’t racing — but Shiro curls his hand around the bottle in his sweatshirt pocket. Good, his Xanax is still there if he needs it. He doesn’t right now. He hopes that he won’t, later. But he hasn’t lost his meds, so in the event of something coming up — should a panic attack or anxiety spiral come hunt him down after all — Shiro won’t be left high and dry. That’s something to be grateful for. So is the fact that staring at the bottles behind the bar, Shiro’s more annoyed by the fact that they aren’t arranged in any order he can pick out easily.

Maybe sensing something amiss, Matt claps Shiro on the back with just enough behind it to yank Shiro back down to earth. “Man, I don’t think I’ve _ever_ seen anybody look so depressed after getting kissed by the love of their young life.”

“Not depressed. Anxious and pensive, but…” Shiro rolls a tense spot out of his shoulders. “Sort of questioning the kiss? Not that I think Keith didn’t mean it because he _did_. But I’m feeling like he might’ve done it more because, I don’t know? Like, maybe he thinks I’m more in danger of falling off the wagon right now than usual.”

“ _Are_ you? Feeling like you’re in any danger of that?”

“Only in the same, ‘Every moment is a choice to use or not’ sense as always. But I _did_ take a while to get here tonight—”

“Yeah, but if you needed more time and you took it, isn’t that a _good_ thing?”

“I didn’t feel like I needed more time, though. I took more time to talk about something else I might get involved with at the community center. ‘Might’ here meaning, ‘I almost definitely well, but I want to sleep on how much I can commit to, which David and Neely know already, so…’”

Vaguely, Shiro wants to throw something. Maybe a round of darts. Except it probably wouldn’t help his nerves any, so he twists his fingers up in his white fringe instead. “I don’t know. Something about tonight feels like I’m waiting on the other shoe to hit me. Or like the Sword of Damocles is hanging over my head.”

“And you’ve got the feeling someone’s gonna be cuttin’ the thread? Your high is low, you’re dressed up with no place to go?” Matt grins hopefully. He outright beams when his _Rocky Horror_ reference makes Shiro chuckle. “Come on, Shiro. You know it’s okay to let yourself enjoy it when he kisses you like that. And have fun in the moment. _Sha la la la_ —”

“ _My oh my, looks like the boy’s too shy, ain’t gonna kiss the_ —”

“I was gonna stick to _Rocky_ and give you some, _‘Sha la la la, that ain’t no crime.’_ But sure, ‘Kiss The Boy’ works, too.”

“Anyway,” Shiro says, finally letting that sigh slip loose. “Thanks for that. And listening. I don’t mean to be a downer—”

“You’re _not_ being a downer. Even if you were, vocalizing your feelings is better than sitting on them. And how many times have you had to deal with me pacing around, babbling about whether or not to call someone back today or tomorrow or hey, what really _is_ the proper booty call etiquette in this or that situation…?”

Matt snickers and bats playfully at Shiro’s shoulder. The answer to his question is, _“Enough times that Shiro has stopped counting them”_ — but Matt’s working on that and he’s getting better. He doesn’t need to have his face rubbed in any of his previous questionable decisions. Instead, Shiro motions for the clipboard. They have to work on the order of songs if anything looks out-of-place, so Shiro blinks at Matt’s handwriting rather than the back of the bar.

First thing that looks wonky has nothing to do with song order. Matt’s writing looks smudged around the edges until Shiro squints at it hard enough. Next thing that stands out is his choice of colors for everyone tonight. As usual, Shiro assumes that Lance has navy, Hunk has orange, and Pidge has the bright neon green while Matt himself is in a darker, emerald shade. His own two songs are in black with Ryou’s “Call Me Maybe” in purple, down at the tail end of the list. Based on the song that’s scribbled down in pink — Whitney Houston’s “I Wanna Dance With Somebody” — Shiro guesses Matt gave that color to Allura. Which means that, unless Matt’s changed up any of the usual suspects’ colors, Keith’s choice will almost certainly be the red one toward the middle of the page.

When Matt confirms this, Shiro can’t help snorting. “God, of course, why _wouldn’t_ he pick Dolly Parton…”

“I don’t think it’s supposed to be significant or anything?” Matt shrugs. “All he told me was that he likes the song.”

“Yeah, I don’t think he did it on purpose or anything like that? He’s the biggest Dolly Parton fan I’ve ever met in my life _and_ he doesn’t know that I’m planning anything… But we had this exact line-up before, the last time we did karaoke together. Can you _definitely_ make sure Te-Osh has him go up to sing after my Olivia Newton-John but before my George Michael?”

“Man, if I sweet-talk her just right, she could make anything happen.”

“Great…” Tucking his white fringe behind his ear, Shiro huffs. “I might need to talk to him before either of us does _anything_? But—”

“Are you gonna pick different songs?” Matt whines. “Everything’s already balanced out—”

“I like my choices fine. The order you’ve worked out looks good, too. You should give that list to Te-Osh ASAP.”

Before either of them can find anything else to banter about, one of the bartenders brings their drinks and cheese-sticks. Shiro slides the clipboard back to Matt. Picking up the tray, Shiro wishes he felt like smiling. Things are going so well that he deserves to smile. Even feeling less ill-at-ease, though, he can’t shake off one of the sub-points that Ryou had on their walk over here. Keith didn’t get what Shiro wanted him to with “I Want Your Sex,” and more than anything else, the responsibility for that fell on Shiro being drunk and acting like an idiot. But there are still some places where Shiro’s song choices might not be as clear as he would like.

“I need to make sure Keith knows that some of the lyrics are strictly figurative,” he explains with a huff, so Matt’s mind can be at ease about their requests list. “With my history, the phrasing of some lines might sound too close to something worrisome that I’ve meant literally before. But if we clear it up ahead of time, then…?”

Matt nods but points out, “What about the whole, ‘surprising him’ thing?”

“I’m gonna need to work on that,” Shiro says. “But I’d rather let him have peace of mind than have my big surprise.”

*** * ***

Shiro’s thinking about something. Even in the low-light of the karaoke room, Keith can tell that much. Probably everyone else in a five-mile radius could pick that out, too. Sure, Shiro has his jaw relaxed and one arm around Keith’s shoulders, and he hasn’t completely tuned out from the conversation. But while he’s watching the stage, Shiro’s eyes have that inexplicably _intense_ look he gets when he’s putting too much thought into something, probably getting them all tangled up around themselves. Somehow, Keith’s feeling pretty sure that the something in question isn’t the gangly-looking, boozy white girl butchering her way through “Bootylicious.”

If not for Matt and Ryou, Keith would almost think he’s imagining things. After all, Shiro has more than his fair share of moments of smiling and laughing with the rest of them. But until Matt sees his name pop on the docket, he and Ryou keep casting _Significant Glances_ over at Shiro, pursing their lips and arching their eyebrows in a way that makes Shiro cuddle closer to Keith or guiltily shrink in around himself. Once Matt’s left, Ryou handles the pointed glancing on his own. There shouldn’t be a way for anyone to make “Octopus’s Garden” even remotely depressing — and yet, Ryou manages it perfectly well, with the way he’s making Shiro look. Fortunately for Ryou, Keith can’t kick him under the table and hug Shiro simultaneously. Otherwise, he totally would, no matter how much Shiro might not appreciate it.

Talking while people are onstage hasn’t given Keith much pause so far tonight. Still, he keeps his mouth shut through Matt’s performance of “Thnks Fr Th Mmrs” out of respect for the fact that he is Pidge’s brother, Hunk’s ex, and Shiro’s friend. As soon as Matt’s done, though, Keith means to speak up and figure out what’s going on in Shiro’s head (and whether or not he’d terribly mind Keith glaring back at Ryou until he backs the Hell off whatever the two of them aren’t sharing with the group).

Keith will do that if he can think of what to say, at least. Which would probably be easier without Matt asking about refills in one ear and a garbled, drunk rendition of The Police’s “Roxanne” in the other. But as Matt drags Ryou back to the bar, Shiro rubs at Keith’s bicep. Onstage, the next person starts in on Smash Mouth’s “All Star,” while Shiro noses at Keith’s temple.

“Everything okay?” he whispers so only Keith can hear him. “You seem a bit… anxious.”

“I was gonna ask you the same thing.” In fairness, though, Shiro got the question first, so Keith nods up at him. “I’m okay. What about you?”

“This exact second? I’m thinking that I love you, and I’m lucky to be here with you right now.”

That sappiness is just like Shiro and God, Keith wants to take it at face value. But he can’t. Not when Shiro sighs like there’s something he isn’t saying. Not when he presses his thigh against Keith’s like he’s looking for a stable point to cling to. Like what’s on his mind is something undeniably _important_ , and he knows this, and it’s slowly killing him to keep saying nothing, but he still can’t get his mouth around the words.

Well, Keith can’t currently do much to take matters into his own hands. Most of his ideas would likely make Shiro feel awkward, given that they’re with a group. Draping his legs across Shiro’s lap seems to work, though. It’s more contact, which makes Shiro smile, but it’s under the table so no one else can see it and have opinions. The worst that might happen is Keith accidentally kicking Lance. Maybe losing his balance and falling backward against Hunk. Neither outcome would make Keith feel very good about himself — but at the same time, he has to figure out what’s up with Shiro. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

“Do I have to kick Matt and your brother?” Keith tries to keep his voice as neutral as possible, tries to keep his face from glowering as much as he feels like doing. Easier said than done, but if it’s wrong to feel protective of Shiro, then being right sounds morally abhorrent, awful, and disgusting. “They kept looking at you in this way like… I dunno, like they needed to mind their own business and lay off already.”

“They’re trying to help me do better by you, so…” Shiro shrugs with a lopsided smile. “I _wouldn’t_ kick them, personally?”

“That’s… cryptic. And vague. Not _completely_ unhelpful, but—”

“They like us being happy together and they don’t want me to screw it up again.” Shiro loosens his embrace of Keith’s shoulders, but he doesn’t completely pull away. He shuffles and sinks in his seat until he’s closer to Keith’s eye-line. “I may have… Planned something for tonight? And I thought it would be fun? And hopefully sweet? It involved song choices and I had this idea to try and… Do the exact opposite of our last karaoke train-wreck? Or what I _thought_ would be the exact opposite—”

“But what’s the _opposite_ of George Michael? Like, Whitesnake? Mötley Crüe? _Poison_?”

Shiro blinks at Keith. Furrows his brow. Then snorts and crumples toward the table, failing to repress a barrage of snickers.

“ _What_?” Keith shrugs as if begging Shiro to come at him with a counter-argument. “They’re all aggressively hetero, dive bar American hair bands from the eighties. To me, that seems like the _perfect_ exact opposite of upscale-tacky, ultra-gay British pop music from the eighties.”

“Not… Not that I’m saying, like… I mean, I see your logic, but that’s not _quite_ … It isn’t really…”

For all he manages to sit up, Shiro doesn’t stop laughing until the song onstage switches to Avril Lavigne’s “Complicated.”

“ _God_ …” Keith cringes. “Never thought I’d hear this song again.”

“Eh, I used to torment Lotor with it when he was being, like… Obnoxious and pretentious, but not exactly hurtful.” Shiro rolls his eyes, even though he’s the one who dragged his ex into the conversation. “He still loves this song but hates admitting it.”

“Screen says you’re up next, though,” Keith points out, nudging his knee into Shiro’s stomach. “So, the opposite of last time?”

“You’ll see what I mean, just…” Shiro takes a deep breath and squeezes Keith’s kneecap. “My first song tonight — you’re probably going to figure out what game is afoot from the first song. It is _not_ that subtle or that… Well, _complicated_. But there are a couple lines in the song that you might not particularly — and I didn’t even think about them until _after_ I’d picked it out and gotten set on it — not that that’s an _excuse_ , but I swear that I don’t mean them literally — I’ll swear it on anything you want, okay — and I don’t want you to think that—”

“Shiro,” he hisses, laying a hand on top of the one on his knee. “What are the lines I’m not supposed to take literally?”

Shiro rubs his lips together, but makes himself admit, “ _Life doesn’t mean a thing without the love you bring_ — and like I said, I didn’t think about how it could sound until _after_ Ryou tried to tell me that a romantic karaoke gesture was a stupid idea, but now I—”

Whatever else he has to say gets muffled by Keith yanking him down into a kiss.

“I won’t think you literally feel like your life is meaningless without me,” Keith promises. Tucking Shiro’s white fringe behind his ear, he smirks. “Go on, you’re almost up. Someone has to show these reserved, tone-deaf jerks how to properly rock karaoke.”

Shiro grins like he has every intention of doing so, and barely avoids crashing into Ryou en route to the side of the stage.

With a fresh Coke and no Shiro to lean on, Keith scoots closer to Hunk instead. Although he doesn’t actually snuggle up to Hunk, Keith is close enough for the big guy to hug him around the shoulders again, and Keith’s not going to argue with that. Why should he? Hunk’s hugs are nice. Warm. They feel safe. They make Hunk and Keith both feel at least somewhat better. For the time being, it’s taking Keith’s mind off the line that Shiro quoted from his first song and how it’s so familiar, Keith _must_ have heard it somewhere before. He _knows_ he has, for all he has no idea where or when. The title’s right on the tip of his tongue — but digging through his brain proves fruitless, and it’s so much easier, instead, to let Hunk hug him and sip his drink.

Apparently not one to let other people have a nice moment uninterrupted, Lance drops onto the table with a loud groan. While the majority of the room claps politely for the last singer, Lance thumps his forehead against his arms. Technically, Keith can’t judge. He isn’t clapping either. On the other hand, he’d at least do the nice thing and fake it, if he weren’t furrowing his brow and squinting at Lance, silently trying to will him and his behavior into making a single lick of sense. Okay, fine, he’s in love with Hunk. Hunk is aware that Lance is in love with him. They are doing a something-or-other involving Hunk sorting out his feelings, and based on everything Keith has seen of Lance so far, the fact that he even offered that kind of patience is a big enough deal on its own. Not that Keith wants to reward basic decency or anything, but Lance hates waiting and a lot of people wouldn’t have agreed to give Hunk any time at all.

Even so, all Hunk’s done is hug Keith around the shoulders. He’s hugged everyone at the table tonight, including Lance and with the sole exception of Ryou. But the latter point is likely out of respect more than anything else, because Ryou gets incredibly picky about hugging everyone who isn’t his brother, as far as Keith knows. Either way, there is nothing here for Lance to cause a scene about. He’s gone the rest of the night without having any jealous temper tantrums due to Hunk hugging someone other than himself. Why start now?

Whether or not Lance means to explain himself, it’s quickly rendered moot. A drumbeat kicks things off, then tumbles into an uptempo synthesizer line. It’s still _so familiar_ but Keith can’t tell _why_ — maybe he’s letting Shiro distract him, all standing there in the spotlight, looking beautiful if tense and possibly a bit hesitant… But Shiro or not, Keith’s heard this song before, he knows he has. Judging from Lance’s exasperated grumbling, he’s heard it before, too.

He hisses, “I _told him_ to just do quiznakking, ‘I Honestly Love You’—”

“Wait, you mean like the Olivia Newton—”

Hunk shushes both of them and not a moment too soon.

“ _Do we deserve a second chance?_ ” Shiro warbles, utterly oblivious to any whispering at his group’s table. He isn’t watching the lyrics on the screen in front of him, either; he has his eyes closed tight. “ _How did we fall into this circumstance? We weren’t so straight and narrow. This is much more than we deserve. A higher voice has called the tune…_ ”

God, why can’t Keith come up with the name of this stupid song? It’s Olivia Newton-John, according to Lance. From the sound of the music, it’s gotta be from the eighties. Shiro’s being so _soft_ about performing this, too. None of his gyrating or writhing, not even in black jeans that are practically painted on his body, not even though the music would totally let him get away with squirming like he’s underneath of someone, getting fucked. As the song builds, he opens his eyes. Then a heavier beat falls, and he snaps his head around to the table, and undeniably, he is looking at Keith. Staring at Keith like the no one else can as Shiro’s singing—

“ _It’s gotta be a strange twist of fate! Telling me that Heaven can wait! Telling me to get it right this tiiiiiiiime…_ ”

“Oh my _God_ , you loser,” Keith whispers into his drink. “You still like this song?”

Ryou rolls his eyes, but almost fondly. “Kashi never _stopped_ liking this song.”

Which is nice and all, but Keith can’t deal with it right this very second. The rest of the world is important, sure, but Keith can only handle so much, so it can leave a message because for now, Keith’s fixated on one person above all others. He slouches onto his elbows. He scoots as close to the table as he can. Hunk reaches in, narrowly saving Keith from putting his elbow in a tiny plate that’s coated in ketchup, grease, and ranch dressing. Good thing, too, because Keith has to be as close to Shiro as he can get while Shiro’s still on stage.

The lines he told Keith not to take literally come and go. From the starry-eyed way that Shiro looks at him, Keith’s not certain that he would’ve done so, without that preemptive statement of performer’s intentions. Clearly, Shiro _wants_ to live — the lyrics say as much, and he’s _promised_ Keith that things aren’t that bad for him anymore, that he’ll talk to Keith if they start getting bad like that again — but all the same? The fact that Shiro thought about things enough to give any advance warning? It kicks around in Keith’s skull, all through Shiro’s song, drowning out almost everything else. There’s the song, and the way that Shiro looks at him while singing and putting energy less into his movements and more into his vocals, and the fact that he took extra time to clear up a point he _knows_ that Keith takes seriously—

Keith doesn’t start connecting dots about Shiro’s longer game until the song is over, until he’s whistling and clapping for Shiro harder than anybody else in the crowd.

“So, which George Michael song are you doing?” He smirks, putting his legs back over Shiro’s lap. Keith probably can’t bring up “Careless Whisper” without revealing that Hunk let things slip, so instead, he guesses, “‘Kissing A Fool’ and ‘Wake Me Up Before You Go Go’ would be better from me to you. Plus, the first one doesn’t really work—”

“Not really,” Shiro agrees with a fond smirk.

“There’s the Wham! ‘I’m Your Man,’ but the Leonard Cohen song with that same title is better—”

“Yeah, even I can’t argue with that—”

“Plus, the Cohen one is better for our situation, probably? Aside from it being a man to a woman—”

“Not that it’s stopped me before. I mean, St. George was still closeted when he put out ‘I Want Your Sex’ and—”

“It’s too early for, ‘Last Christmas’ and it’s not really appropriate, either.” Keith hums as a thought occurs. “I mean, unless you wanted to bring it out to try and channel what I told you about Antok and Kolivan? But that’s just kinda weird—”

“I could _tell you_ what I’m doing, if you really want to know so badly.” With a snort, Shiro pokes the tip of Keith’s nose. “Or you could stop trying to guess and let me surprise you, which was the original idea—”

“‘Faith’ doesn’t fit our situation either? Not really,” Keith presses on. “Anyway, if you were going that way, you’d have the leather jacket and aviators, and there wouldn’t be a surprise at all. ‘One More Try’ _could_ line up nicely, but it’s not high enough up your list of favorites. _Please_ tell me you’re not gonna do, ‘Father Figure’—”

“Mullet, what do you _not_ understand about the word, _‘surprise’_?” Lance sucks on the dregs of his virgin Shirley Temple. “For _quiznak’s_ sake—”

“You keep using that word,” Allura pipes up. “I don’t think it—”

“He knows what it means.” Keith shakes his head. “I gave him a rundown about it, but I didn’t really…? I sorta didn’t explain all the nuances of why, ‘For quiznak’s sakes’ doesn’t work as well as, ‘For fuck’s sakes’ does in English. He’s not trying to be offensive—”

“How am I being _offensive_ —”

“Allura is _Altean_. She grew up speaking Altean at home. She knows why ‘quiznak’ isn’t a word you throw around like—”

Lance lets himself _ugh_ and groan so loudly, it almost interrupts the guy onstage, with his rumpled suit and his garbled take on “Eye of the Tiger.” Grumbling indecipherably, Lance smacks his forehead on his arms. Keith glances over at Pidge as if she might be able to give him a translation of Lance’s emotional state or an explanation for why he’s acting like this. All she does is shrug. At the moment, turning to face Hunk would be awkward and require Keith to _not_ be in quite as much physical contact with Shiro. But texting him questions and concerns doesn’t work out how Keith would like, either.

_“I dunno, man,”_ Hunk texts back, sighing heavily and slouching toward Keith. _“It’s getting late and he might be tired? Or impatient? His adderall’s gotta be wearing off too and that always makes him get a bit messy? More so than he can be normally, anyway? I know he can be a bit much, but he really probably doesn’t mean to be right now?”_

Keith supposes he can’t argue with that point, and it _would_ explain everything. He’s content to leave well enough alone on this one, too. For all Lance is acting _different_ from his usual self, it isn’t by so much that Keith feels a need to interrogate everything about his behavior. Picking apart Lance’s emotional state might not necessarily make him feel even worse. Whether or not it exacerbates things, though, Keith would bet that such a cross-examination definitely won’t make Lance feel _better_. No matter how much he likes attention, that likely does not include getting put under a microscope while he’s on a night out with friends.

Until the next singer gets going, it seems that everyone else is also perfectly fine with letting this slide. But Hunk skulks off while Lance grumbles into his drink about how Kesha doesn’t deserve such a terrible performance. According to the song order screen, that only means Hunk’s getting ready for his turn. As soon as Hunk’s comfortably out of earshot, Shiro taps the back of his hand against Lance’s shoulder.

“What happened with you two? You’re acting… less than stellar? Did something happen?”

“ _No_ , it _didn’t_ ,” Lance whines. “Almost two weeks and _nothing’s_ happened whatsoever, okay?”

Keith huffs and nestles closer to Shiro’s shoulder. “If it helps, Hunk’s song choice doesn’t mean anything special.”

Allura hums and clinks the ice cubes around in her glass. “I wouldn’t be so certain of that?”

“What’re you talking about, Princess? He’s singing ‘Barbie Girl.’ That has _nothing_ to do with their—”

“He changed his mind,” Matt says, and Keith can’t tell if he’s grimacing or trying to force a grin.

Nodding, Allura clarifies, “Regardless of what Hunk does or doesn’t intend tonight, the new song is much easier to find subtext in.”

“Guys, _please_ ,” Shiro tells them firmly. Squeezing Lance’s elbow, he says, “It’s okay if you don’t feel so well about this. Agreeing to give him time doesn’t mean you have to wait forever, or that you aren’t allowed to be frustrated with anything.”

“This probably isn’t worth much?” Keith adds. “But my advisor and his husband have been married for twenty years—”

“I thought the state Supreme Court didn’t pass marriage equality until 2004,” Pidge chimes in.

“That’s when they got legally married. But they first traded rings and started calling each other, ‘husband’ in 1997.” Huffing, Keith turns his eyes to Lance. His mouth feels wobbly as he tries to curl it up in a reassuring smile.

But Lance doesn’t manage an actual smile either, so Keith doesn’t feel too bad about his own ineptitude with making facial expressions.

“Anyway, Antok agreed to give Kolivan a week to decide after his first proposal. Because Kolivan’s not the most emotionally open person, most of the time. And he said he wanted to feel sure of himself before he actually gave Antok an answer. Keep in mind, they’d already been together for _years_ , at that point. Antok wound up waiting three and he had to call Kolivan out. It wasn’t… I mean, I wouldn’t call what happened between them messy, because they still got together? But my standards aren’t the same as theirs?”

Letting his head droop against Shiro’s shoulder, Keith sighs. This doesn’t feel like he’s actually helping any, but he’s started things already, so he might as well see them through to the end, wherever that is. “Both of them have written about that incident before. I have the books where they did in my backpack if you wanna see them later. Like, I get that the waiting for Hunk to make up his mind still sucks—”

“Waiting for you to make your _point_ still sucks,” Lance says.

“ _Very_ clever, Sir Lancelot,” Ryou deadpans. Whatever expression Shiro throws his way, it makes Ryou sneer and jerk his shoulders like he has no idea what else his brother expects him to say. “All that I mean, Kashi? Is that Lance can manage a better comeback than that in his sleep.”

“Hey, man, I’m _distraught_ —”

“You are working a mood—”

“Yeah, because I’m _upset_ —”

“And it’s bringing the entire table down with you—”

“I’m not _trying_ to do that, though—”

“You aren’t trying to be very considerate of everyone else, either—”

“ _My point_ ,” Keith snaps. Part of him can’t believe he’s glaring at Ryou for Lance’s sake, but God, this is getting ridiculous.

Ryou smirks back at him in a way that Keith can’t read. It makes his cheeks flush hot, whatever Ryou’s intent is.

Fixing his eyes on Lance, Keith tells him, “My point is: Hunk taking a while doesn’t mean things are totally hopeless between you two. You might need to take some more initiative? Like Shiro did in telling me how he feels, or like Antok did in going, ‘Babe, it’s been three weeks, are you ever going to give me an answer or’—”

“ _Sssh_!” Bumping Keith’s shoulder, Shiro points toward Hunk, standing on the stage.

Not a second later, the pounding drumbeat starts. Then, the synth line that Keith recognizes all too well. Rolling his eyes, he allows himself a loud, vocal _ugh_ , and only half of him hopes that Hunk didn’t hear. It wouldn’t be fair, upsetting Hunk or kicking him in the anxiety before he sings. If he doesn’t have any ulterior motives in this choice of song, then it _really_ won’t help for Keith to assume that he does.

The other half of Keith, though, buries his face in Shiro’s neck as soon as Hunk intones, “ _We are young… Heartache to heartache…_ ”

“I cannot _believe_ him,” Keith hisses. “I _told him_ to just talk to Lance instead of—”

Shiro shuts up Keith’s objections by stealing a kiss. It doesn’t go that deep and it doesn’t last terribly long, but he smirks like he’s feeling incredibly pleased with himself. He very well might be, and dammit, he’s too cute for Keith to argue. Without a word, he squeezes Keith’s shoulder and goes back to looking at the stage, beaming at Hunk.

Keith, meanwhile, takes to watching Lance. He and all their friends are absorbed in watching Hunk perform, so _somebody_ ought to keep an eye on Lance. Still slumped over on the table, Lance leans toward Hunk like he’s a sunflower and Hunk has replaced the sun. Lance tugs on the collar of his black t-shirt as if he can’t breathe, but personally, Keith can’t chalk that up to anything about Hunk’s performance. The air in here stuffs up everything, crowding in around everyone until breathing feels laborious as Hell. About the only break anyone gets is when the side-door opens to the street and lets out some of the steam the karaoke room is building up.

Despite this, though, Lance insists on wearing three layers of shirts that make him look like he’s going home to meet a significant other’s parents. Directly on top of the t-shirt is a cream-colored button-up that he may well have slept in. Over that is a navy blue number that almost looks like a blazer. Perhaps it wants to be one when it grows up. It seems heavier than Lance’s other shirts, but not enough to be a jacket, and there’s so much room in the shoulders that he might have borrowed the top from Shiro. Despite the fact that it has buttons, Lance hasn’t done any of them up. The rolled-up sleeves crumple around his elbows and strain every time he ignores the laws of physics and tries to lean closer to Hunk.

_Something_ about the outfit seems familiar in the same way as Shiro’s first song: Keith’s seen it before, somewhere, at some point. He _feels_ like it’s significant, not least because it’s such a big break away from Lance’s usual uniform of t-shirts and crop-tops. But Keith can’t quite place why he feels like he knows this outfit, and he can’t focus on identifying it right now.

Well, he _could_ focus on that, but he doesn’t want to. He’s getting nowhere, and there is so much more going on than Lance’s clothing. Almost perfectly synced up to Hunk’s singing, Lance mouths along with Pat Benatar’s words, rarely letting up even the slightest bit. The first time he pauses, it’s because Lance can’t hold back on a wistful sigh.

Then, as Hunk sings, _“It would help me to know: do I stand in your way? Or am I the best think you’ve had,”_ Lance’s lips quiver as if he might start crying, and he needs a moment before he can keep them moving with the rest of the lyrics. When Hunk gets to the line, _“When I’m losing control, will you turn me away? Or touch me deep inside,”_ Lance lets out a small, wobbling noise, not a sob but pretty damn close to one. Every time Hunk goes over the chorus, Lance keeps time with him, but his eyes widen and his brow wrinkles up in the very picture of anguish.

Yet, his eyes stay dry. Any glistening behind them doesn’t once turn into tears. Maybe the low light is playing tricks on Keith’s eyes, making him mistake starry-eyed adoration for some actual tearing up. Not that Keith’s in the wrong for worrying about that, if you ask him. Whatever the song might or might not mean to Lance and Hunk, it’s playing Lance’s heartstrings like Satan playing a golden fiddle. The fact that Lance’s face looks how it does and he hasn’t yet broken down sobbing is a testament to _something_ about him. Most likely, it has to do with some inner strength that Lance doesn’t properly appreciate about himself because it isn’t the exact kind of inner strength that he values most. That would fit with Hunk’s description of Lance wanting to be Pete Wentz so badly that he ignores several of the good things about himself.

As the song winds down, Keith folds his arms over his chest and squints up at the stage. Being Lance’s best friend, Hunk _must_ have known what picking this song might do to Lance. Yeah, it’s Hunk’s life and Hunk’s business. Keith shouldn’t meddle or stick in his opinions without an invitation. But Keith lets himself frown anyway. He lets himself think, _I told you to talk to him instead of making some kind of statement. Shiro talked to me before getting on the stage tonight. What’s **your** excuse, Big Man?_

Dimly, as the applause erupts and Hunk scurries offstage and toward the restrooms, it occurs to Keith that he used the plural first-person possessive before. True, it was only to himself — but shouldn’t he be thinking of the group as _Lance’s_ friends, not as _their_ friends? Is he really close enough to the group to have that title? Glancing at Allura snags Keith’s logic: she definitely _is_ his friend and she was before meeting any of the others, so the group clearly isn’t homogeneous and Keith would at best be oversimplifying everything, if he tried to argue that Lance is friends with all of them and Keith is not—

With a huff, Keith reclines against Shiro’s shoulder again. He doesn’t feel like joining the rest of the crowd, answering the new singer’s repeated, _“Who you gonna call?”s_ with, _“Ghostbusters!”_ Even so, Keith doesn’t particularly want to be in his own head either. It’s easier to get out of his thoughts when Shiro’s rubbing at his arm and leaning down to kiss his temple.

By the time _Ghostbusters_ guy is done, Hunk still isn’t back. He misses out on the two girls singing “Don’t Go Breakin’ My Heart.” He’s not back for Pidge’s number, either. She gets all the way through some pop-punk song about failing miserably to woo the girl all the bad guys want, and Hunk is still missing. Keith frowns in the direction of the restrooms. But as Pidge rejoins the group and a girl wearing a t-shirt with Benjamin the Kaltenecker Cow drawls, _“I’m too sexy for my love, too sexy for my love, love’s going to leave me,”_ Keith gets beaten to punch on saying anything about the current situation.

“Okay,” Pidge huffs. “Since Hunk’s not here, I have to ask: Lance, what the Hell is with your outfit?”

Lance shoves himself up off the table and shrugs. “It goes with my song.”

“So, you’re… What? I dunno, singing the Eiffel 65 song and wearing blue for it?”

“ _No_ , Pidge! It’s something from a movie, and I know you that know it, it’ll all make sense when—”

As much as Keith agrees with Pidge asking about this — as much as he wants to know the answer, too — he wriggles away from Shiro. Reaching under the table, Keith pulls a spare toothbrush and his toothpaste out of his backpack. He hasn’t yet seen Hunk puke from anxiety yet, but it’s better to be prepared, in case that decided to happen tonight. Hunk doesn’t deserve to spend the rest of the night stewing in the aftertaste of his own vomit. _Nobody_ deserves that, not even when they’ve made such glaringly questionable decisions about their karaoke choices.

Without wasting time on any kind of explanation, Keith charges toward the restroom. Maybe he’s exasperated with Hunk’s choice of song, but no one else is going after him. Keith watched Lance instead of Hunk’s paying any attention to Hunk’s performance, and if he’s going to think of the group as his friends, then he better act like it, too.

Crossing the threshold into the restroom, Keith takes a deep breath. He can’t hold back a gagging noise at how much artificial lemon-scented cleaner stench he can pick out. At least only one of the urinals is occupied. Sure, the guy there isn’t Hunk, but fortunately, the big guy doesn’t make himself hard to find. When Keith peers down the line of stalls, Hunk’s feet are clearly visible in the one at the end. Makes sense enough, Keith guesses. You can’t approximate privacy very well in a public restroom, but going down to the last stall might feel more isolated from the others. Even if Hunk _knows_ he’s not alone in here, his choice in hiding places might let him feel differently.

Ignoring the guy at the urinal, Keith stomps toward Hunk. He leans on the sink outside of Hunk’s stall and folds his arms over his chest. His hold tightens around the toothbrush and paste, but nothing explodes, so it should be fine. Behind the door, there’s a sound like someone sniffling. Not retching, but maybe Hunk’s already done with that part. Closing his eyes, Keith silently counts to ten. Hunk hasn’t come out or spoken up by then, so it’s time to take the initiative.

“Hey, Big Man?” Keith ventures softly. “Hunk, you okay?”

Hunk whines intransigently and says nothing.

Rolling his eyes, Keith counts to ten again. When his friend still doesn’t give him an answer, he butts his foot at Hunk’s door. Kicking it would be easier, since it wouldn’t require any degree of self-control. But it would probably also knock the door in. Aside from possibly damaging the stalls, that would be a serious violation of Hunk’s boundaries. Keith takes a deep breath and hugs himself tighter. He’s made it through significantly worse things in bathrooms than Hunk being stubborn. He can get through this without acting like a bad friend. Somehow, he will.

“I know you’re in there, Hunk—”

“Yeah, I know, it’s not like I’m _hiding_ —”

“Really? Because it sure feels to me like you’re hiding—”

“But not, like, on _purpose_ , okay?” Hunk’s groan seems to come from a pretty deep place in his chest. It bursts out of it like he’s been sitting on it for who even knows how long and somebody just blew up the dam. “I thought I was gonna throw up, and then I thought I _wouldn’t_. Then, I kinda started _crying_ ‘cause I couldn’t figure out if I was gonna puke or not, which finally made me throw up, but then crying didn’t stop and now my mouth is all _gross_ , and Lance probably like hates me for what I just did—”

“I have a toothbrush,” Keith cuts in, as gently as he can manage under the circumstances. “Look, I can’t say one way or the other about Lance. He’s frustrated and impatient, but I don’t think he’s upset about the song, at least? From where I was sitting, he looked more lovesick than anything. But if you wanna come out of there, I have a brush and toothpaste, and then your mouth won’t have to feel gross.”

That, finally, makes Hunk come out to rejoin the rest of the world. While he cleans any leftover sick out of his mouth, Keith leans against the wall, between the hot-air blow-dryers for people’s hands. He closes his eyes so maybe Hunk won’t feel like he’s being watched too closely. If their positions were reversed, Keith would hate feeling like that. Not as much as he’d hate the part of this where he cried and then threw up, but all the same. He doesn’t rouse again until Hunk prods his shoulder and asks why he even had a toothbrush anyway.

Keith shrugs. “I’ve spent enough time living out of my backpack. Even with my own apartment, I guess… Old habits die hard?”

“Well, I won’t say it isn’t kinda concerning, because it sorta is? Especially when you don’t ever call your place, ‘home’ that I’ve heard—”

“It’s _not_ my home. It’s just the place where I live—”

“Yeah, and I get that, it’s kinda my point? Like, the fact that you still feel rootless and everything like that? It’s not really reassuring, ‘cause I wish you felt better, _not_ all disconnected and stuff, but…” Sighing, Hunk forces a wobbly smile. “At least you could probably MacGyver our way out of anything that comes up, right?”

With a noncommittal noise, Keith tucks a loose bit of hair behind his ear. “Seriously, Hunk. What’s up?”

“I don’t…” A deep breath, and Hunk lets himself slouch. Shoulders drooping as if someone’s using his back as a stepping-stone, he’s making himself about as small as it’s possible for him to look. He says, “I feel like I don’t know, but also like I _do_? Like, picking that song instead of my other choice? ‘Cause ‘Barbie Girl’ would’ve been fun, but now, in between everything else? With me picking ‘Love Is A Battlefield’ instead—”

“It means something to Lance, doesn’t it?”

“No — well, yes, but—” Hunk rolls his shoulders with another whiny noise. “It’s like, the song is one of my favorites? And Lance knows that? And I _didn’t_ mean for it to mean anything special, but he’s totally gonna think that it _does_ , and I don’t know what to do—”

“ _Talk to him_. Like I told you before.” Hanging his head would be easier, but Keith forces himself to look Hunk in the eye. “Even if you don’t think you know how you feel? Talk to Lance. Whether it’s romantic or not, you obviously _do_ love him—”

“What d’you mean, _obviously_?”

“Dude, after our trip to Stop-N-Shop, I thought you and Lance were already dating.”

“Wait, _seriously_?”

“The way you talk about him sounded like, ‘Please excuse my boyfriend, he’s a handful but I love him’—”

“Oh my _God_ — and Pidge was telling me all this stuff about, like? ‘You tell Lance his butt looks nice if you love it so much’—”

“I mean, she has a _point_. If you like his ass so much, you should _tell him_ —”

“But what if he feels objectified?”

“I don’t mean talking about his ass _exclusively_ , genius!”

Closing his eyes and scrunching his nose, Keith almost — _almost_ — lets himself bang his head against the wall. Digging his fingertips into his elbow helps keep him from doing that. He should not do that. If nothing else, Hunk will tell Shiro, and Shiro will be disappointed. After pointing out how Keith’s self-harming when he does this and telling him how much he can hurt himself by banging his skull into things, Shiro’s probably hoping that Keith will put more work into breaking the habit entirely. But God, the impulse keeps scratching at the back of his mind, telling him that everything will be so much easier if he relents. Latching onto the pain could maybe clear his head, or possibly help keep him grounded—

Keith shakes his head to banish those thoughts. All it does is jostle his bangs loose again, but he makes himself focus on moving on. Hunk’s giving him a look like he’s waiting for the other shoe to fall and hit him on the head. He whines like he expects a bag of bricks and not a shoe.

“You have so many more things to discuss with Lance besides his ass,” he tells Hunk, about as calmly as he feels capable of. “Look, the fact that you love him is obvious. Even if you don’t fully know what kind of love it is, yourself. Which, for the record? Isn’t weird or wrong or anything. But you do know that he’s important to you. You don’t want to hurt him. And right now, one of the best ways to avoid doing that? Is to talk to him.”

Combing his fingers through his bangs, Keith huffs. “Take it from someone who’s screwed up like that more than his fair share. No matter how hard it is? No matter how much you hate doing it? No matter how many answers you don’t feel like you have? Suck it up and _talk. To. Lance._ ”

Hunk nods in understanding. Or possibly something that _wants_ to be understanding. Keith can’t rightly tell which it is because Hunk’s facial expression keeps waffling, refusing to settle on any feeling in particular. One moment, he has his jaw set, his shoulders squared up, and a faint glimmer of certainty behind his eyes. The next, he’s straightening his back even further still, curling a hand up in a fist, and shaking it at thin air as if he’s determined and everything’s playing out in a way he knows that he can handle. The next after that, he’s whining and slouching and looks like someone’s trying to convince him that this roller-coaster won’t upset his upchuck reflex and he’s really going to be fine.

Keith keeps himself from rolling his eyes, but not from thinking, _Yeah, you and me both, Big Man_.

With a cough to clear his throat, he holds out his arms. He doesn’t even need to ask if Hunk wants a hug; Hunk takes the silent hint and flings his arms around Keith’s shoulders. It’s more than a bit of a squeeze, trying to hug him back. Pressed up against Hunk’s broad, warm chest, Keith has to wriggle and slither his arms underneath of Hunk’s, just to worm them around his friend’s middle so this embrace can be less one-sided. He can’t reach all the way around, once Keith manages to reciprocate and hug Hunk properly. Several times, he nearly gets his fingers to touch, but for as hard as he clutches onto Hunk, Keith keeps coming up short. At least Hunk doesn’t seem to notice. Or if he does, then he doesn’t seem to mind. He only hugs Keith closer and whimpers, knocking his forehead against Keith’s shoulder.

—Which, in turn, forces Keith to repress a groan. He can’t let it out, because Hunk might not get that it isn’t aimed at him. Still, Keith deserves for _somebody_ to be exasperated with him. God, he shouldn’t be finding comfort in much of anything right now, not when someone he wants to call his friend is such a mess. He _definitely_ shouldn’t be relieved that Hunk isn’t paying attention to whether or not Keith can wrap his arms all the way around Hunk’s soft chest and belly.

In fairness, though, Hunk doesn’t even perk up when the door opens and two guys Keith doesn’t recognize wander in, loudly babbling about the people they want to fuck. Nuzzling at Hunk gently, Keith sighs. It takes a bit of nudging and maneuvering, but Keith gets them into the corner, away from the blow-dryers. Privacy might not be something they can have right now, but at least Keith can keep Hunk as shielded as possible, for as long as he needs. Getting sledgehammered by long pent-up feelings sucks. Other people need the restroom too, but Hunk probably needs to feel like he has some space. Sharing his feelings with less shame doesn’t mean Hunk doesn’t need room right now. Best that Keith can do is tune out everyone else.

Keith doesn’t pay mind to how much time is passing, either. There are more important things than how much time Hunk needs for this hug. Sure, after a while, Keith’s stomach starts squirming like he’s going to be sick himself. Not entirely unexpected, in a hug like this. It’s lasting longer than all the physical contact that Keith is used to getting when he’s awake. But instead of letting up, Keith makes himself clutch onto Hunk tighter. Damn his own comfort. As long as Hunk still needs this, Keith’s going to make sure that he gets it.

Eventually, Hunk gives Keith one last squeeze and pats him between the shoulder-blades. When they separate, his smile isn’t _wobbling_ , exactly, but it has a fragile look to it. Whether Hunk needs another reassuring touch or not, Keith reaches up to rest a hand on his shoulder.

Rather than putting Hunk at ease, it makes him gasp and makes his eyes go wide.

“Oh, dude, wait,” he says. “Did you get your turn yet? At singing?”

Keith furrows his brow. “…No? Why?”

“ _Because_ , man! Oh my God…” Hunk sighs. “Matt had you on the list right after me, we might’ve even missed it—”

“ _Hunk_.” Keith doesn’t mean to snap. He can’t tell if Hunk feels like he has or not. But in case he did go off too hard just now, Keith pats Hunk’s bicep in a way that he _hopes_ makes up for it. Looking Hunk in the eye, Keith tells him, “If I’m out a few bucks for a karaoke turn I didn’t take? That’s fine. I’d rather know that you’re gonna be okay.”

Managing a small smile, Hunk pokes Keith in the chest. “But you _don’t_ secretly have a heart of gold hiding in there, hmm?”

Keith smirks. “Absolutely not. Allegedly, I have a heart made out of a tempered chromium-steel alloy.”

Hunk arches an eyebrow. “Isn’t that what your Mom’s _knife_ is made of?”

“No. Her knife is made of pure luxite.” Shrugging, Keith jerks his head toward the door.

Although Hunk’s still looking more than a bit incredulous, he supposes that he’s okay now. Anyway, he and Keith should probably get back to the group before someone decides to organize a rescue mission or Pidge kicks in the men’s room door to come save them.

They’re heading out when Hunk snickers. “You know that chromium is where the _stainless_ part of stainless steel comes from, right?” he says, gently elbowing at Keith’s ribs. “Or are you _trying_ to get a cool nickname from me? Something like, I dunno, Sir Keith the Stainless? Sir Keith the Steel-Hearted? Sir Keith the Pure of Spirit—”

“How about Sir Keith the Not-Actually-Any-Kind-Of-Knight-In-This-Reality?” Keith huffs. Despite himself, though, he can’t help smiling.

*** * ***

Letting Keith follow Hunk into the bathroom seemed, to Shiro, like a perfectly good idea at the time. Out of him, Lance, and Pidge, Hunk has probably made the most headway toward actual, “not simply putting up with each other because both of them care about Shiro” friendship with Keith. Besides, Keith cares about people more than he likes letting on, but he’s also the one out of the group — except for maybe Ryou — who’d have the easiest time dragging Hunk back out to the rest of the group. Physically, probably everyone but Matt and Pidge could manage it, but Keith and Ryou would be able to get Hunk out without feeling bad about how they had to do it.

But after three songs, Shiro has Lance slumped against his shoulder, whining, while Matt’s firing off a text to Te-Osh and asking her to please switch Keith and Allura in the performance order. Trying to understand Lance better (or so Shiro thinks), Allura covers most of the duties of talking to him. She asks if he’s alright, and does he want a refill on his drink or something, and is there a chance that Hunk might’ve chosen the Pat Benatar song more because he likes it than because he wanted to make any special point to Lance. Pidge chimes in occasionally, but Ryou keeps whatever he’s thinking to himself — which is for the best. He and Lance have enough trouble mixing well when Lance _isn’t_ in a bad mood.

Shiro would prefer to be doing more than hugging Lance and listening, he’d also prefer for Keith and Hunk to have gotten back by now. Not that they can’t handle themselves, because they can and Shiro _knows_ that. Maybe Keith is exceptionally talented at ignoring his problems until they have twelve heads and all the heads are breathing fire, but he’s also got the hang of soldiering on despite said problems and weathering the storms that they create. As for Hunk, he has the second-best grasp of self-care out of everyone here. He’s only beaten by Lance, and in fairness, their exact rankings are somewhat up for debate. Lance is better with the concept that you don’t need to prove that you “deserve” nice things and the idea that you can treat yourself simply for the sake of feeling good.

On the other hand, though, Hunk has a better track record of not using “self-care” as an excuse to skip class and go to the mall, or to sleep in rather than helping clean up the apartment.

During Allura’s energetic rendition of Whitney Houston’s “I Wanna Dance With Somebody (Who Loves Me),” Lance groans softly and drops his head onto Shiro’s shoulder. Holding him at least seems to be reassuring him that his friends do not secretly hate him, but it isn’t really improving Lance’s mood overall. As the person after Allura keens their way through “Bad Romance,” Shiro glances past the side-door to the street and down the corridor that leads back to the restrooms. The lights in the exit sign must be brighter than usual, to make it look so oddly fuzzy around the edges. But Shiro has to squint to see anything in the hallway, and none of what he can make out looks even remotely like Hunk and Keith.

With a disgruntled, grumbling noise, Lance flicks a fingertip at Shiro’s thigh. “What’s got _you_ looking so grumpy, Shirito?”

Shaking his head, Shiro has to blink the group and the table back into focus.

“No, he has a point,” Pidge pipes up, apparently taking Shiro’s gesture as a disagreement. “You _were_ looking other than pleased just now. And I mean, I get that Keith chased another guy into a grungy bathroom? But I think he and Hunk have more class than that—”

“Also?” Matt cuts in. “I’m just saying, they _definitely_ wouldn’t hook up with each other at all when Keith loves you and Hunk—”

“Wants Lance to carry him off on a white stallion and fuck him into the sunset,” says Pidge. “Even though Hunk is possibly the last person to realize this about his own feelings.”

“Can we _not_ talk about what Hunk does or doesn’t feel?” Lance grouses. “He doesn’t feel like he knows yet, so like? Is it really our place to say quiznakking anything about wish he would feel? ‘Cause I don’t think it is.”

“Seconded,” says Ryou. “In addition to Lance’s surprisingly good point? You’re only making him mope harder by talking about whether or not Hunk reciprocates his feelings of heart-eyed, sunset make-out session, ‘and the stars fell all around us,’ bodice-ripping love.”

“I like how we’re assuming what I was thinking over here while saying we shouldn’t make any assumptions about Hunk.”

Shiro rolls his eyes, but shoots a smile over to Ryou and Allura. He tosses another one at Pidge, since she likes reassurance from her older brother figures more than she likes admitting. With a huff, Shiro says, “Anyway, I wasn’t grumpy. The lights in here must be playing games with my eyes. I wanted to check if Hunk and Keith were coming back yet, but I didn’t see them in the hallway. Or anything else, either.”

“Well, you sure _looked_ grumpy.” Lance huffs and puts his head back on Shiro’s shoulder. “Which made me wonder what the deal was. ‘Cause you’re allowed to feel whatever you feel, but it was like? Hey, at least the mess who you’re in love with _knows_ that he reciprocates.”

Which is a fair enough point. If Lance and Shiro had their positions reversed — if Hunk were the one making out with Lance at karaoke while Keith needed time to think about his feelings, and if Lance were the one looking cranky right now even though his hypothetical love life would be going pretty well — then Shiro would feel similarly. He wouldn’t feel _proud_ of himself for that, but he’d feel like he had more to be upset about right now than Lance.

Up on the stage, the Lady Gaga ends. The next person starts up a pretty good “Take On Me.” That one leads into a slightly drunk guy who’s very enthused about performing “Single Ladies.” With a huff, Shiro squints down the hall again. He thinks he makes out two figures who _might_ be Hunk and Keith? They pause on their way out, which should help Shiro to see them better but it doesn’t. Not by enough to make a difference, anyway. One of them’s taller and bigger, while the other’s shorter and smaller but not exactly skinny. They might be talking about something?

Shiro spaces out, wondering what’s going on and whether or not he’s correctly identifying the two figures. Maybe the low light’s collaborating with Shiro’s mind, making him see Hunk and Keith because he _wants_ for it to be them. He keeps squinting until Hunk flops back into his seat by Pidge’s side with a heavy sigh. After a moment of dragging himself and his eyes’ ability to focus back to the table, Shiro’s only question is where they Hell Keith’s gotten off to. All Hunk does by way of answering is point at the screen.

At the moment, Shiro doesn’t feel like looking at it. But that works out just fine, this time. Once the applause has died down for “Single Ladies” guy, a piano line and driving drumbeat start up. They’re familiar like one of the cousins who Shiro hasn’t done that much work to keep in closer touch with: Shiro knows them well enough, there’s a comfort in them, but unless he’s listening to his so-called “Keith playlist,” he’d usually pick different songs to listen to, just like how most of his cousins hear from him less often because he has the easiest time talking to Kira and he’s had more work to do with Tatsuya. Frankly, most of the comfort doesn’t even come from how Shiro knows the song already; it comes from the way he’ll probably never stop associating it with Keith.

And then there’s Keith, at centerstage and bathed in the spotlight. Instead of hugging the mic or clinging to the stand like most people, he leaves his hands free. One of them thumps against his thigh and Keith has his eyes half-closed, like he needs to put in extra effort so he can focus on the rhythm he’s tapping out. Makes sense — if he were over here, Shiro would kiss him instead of letting Keith tax himself too much. Keeping time is always hit or miss with him, but from here, he seems to be doing a pretty decent job.

Then the guitar and horns start up, and Keith turns his face back out to the crowd. He smirks eagerly, with that mischievous gleam in his eye like he’s about to run headlong into starting something.

“ _You look at me that way, I know what your eyes say. Your eyes reflect love and desire…_ ” Keith may not be perfectly at home on a stage, but he looks at the table. Maybe he can make out Shiro’s smile for him through the spotlight, maybe he can’t. But he grins as he sings, “ _I see that you need me. I need you to please me. You touch me and set me on fire!_ ”

He drags his hands up his sides and rolls out his spine like an electric shock is coursing through him.

“ _The way that you love me, the way that you touch me, the way that you whisper my name!_ ” Yearning spells itself out all over the way Keith twists up his face. Longing comes out in each note that escapes his mouth. “ _I cannot resist you each time I kiss you, then everything goes up in flames!_ ”

Even knowing that Keith picked this song, Shiro chuckles and gives a little shake of his head because this song is so like Keith. Sure, it’s Dolly Parton, but aside from that obvious point, the song is so high-energy, just like Keith when he’s feeling well. He’s loved it for as long as Shiro can remember. The song’s so perfectly matched to Shiro’s choices, too, even though Keith had no idea what Shiro was planning before picking what he wanted to do tonight.

Maybe Keith’s not a _performer_ , but he seems perfectly at ease as he winks at Shiro and sings, “ _Baby, I’m burnin’, you got me on fire!_ ”

Gently elbowing at Shiro’s side, Lance whispers, “I thought you told me Mighty Mullet could only perform when he’s drunk?” He only pauses long enough to take in Shiro’s bemused expression. “I mean, he isn’t great or anything, but… He seems more at ease than I would’ve guessed?”

“He’s drunk in _love_ , Sir Lancelot,” says Ryou. “Far more intoxicating than any liquor, in my experience.”

Shiro agrees, but right now, he doesn’t have the patience to chime in. Right now, he only wants to look at Keith.

*** * ***

Dropping back into his seat, Keith wastes no time in placing his legs on Shiro’s lap again. Shiro wastes no time in cupping a hand around Keith’s jaw and cheek. He gives Keith one of his open, special smiles and whispers that Keith did so well. Onstage, the latest performer bleats “Like A Virgin” with more passion than they have skill and Shiro snorts like he has something that he could say about that. Instead, he leans in and sucks on Keith’s lip. He kisses deeply, earnestly, and so impatiently that Keith would almost think his song lasted longer than its not-even-three full minutes. Not that he’s complaining, or that he stops himself from leaning into Shiro’s hand.

Protesting lungs aside, Keith and Shiro don’t give each other a rest until two people at the table clear their throats. When Keith pulls back from Shiro, Lance and Ryou both blush bright red. They throw each other an awkward glance that screams, _“Let us never speak of this again.”_

That sounds like a perfect approach to this, if anyone asks Keith. Whatever’s going on for Lance and Ryou, Keith wants to put everything about the interruption aside. Preferably, he’d do that by getting back to making out with Shiro. In fairness, though, the rest of the group’s still here, and playing too much tonsil-hockey with Shiro could make them uncomfortable. If nothing else, it’d likely put Lance in an even worse mood, and he’d milk it for all it’s worth. Things are iffy enough, given that they have no control over what other people choose to sing and Matt can’t get a list from Te-Osh ( _“I mean, I could in theory?”_ he explains. _“But she’s working, I’d rather not distract her at the moment, y’know”_ ). Adding another layer to Lance’s current angst would have an effect on everybody at the table.

He really doesn’t need any help, either. While Pidge tries to ask Allura and Ryou about their respective research, Lance grouches his way through someone else’s performance of “Bye Bye Bye.” Apparently, he hates this song, he hates how its music video makes no sense to him, and he hates Justin Fucking Timberlake and his quiznakking stupid face.

After that, they’re treated to “Bad Moon Rising” as sung by someone who looks like he wants everyone to think he only dresses like a redneck ironically. Lance says nothing when Pidge tries to bait him and Keith into arguing over whether Kesha’s new version of “Old Flames Can’t Hold A Candle To You” can beat Dolly Parton’s solo recording. Keith doesn’t do much to help Pidge’s attempts at shit-stirring, though; he hasn’t heard the Kesha version. But even that does nothing to rouse Lance from sulking with his arms folded over his chest. A pair of drunk girls can barely stand up while getting through a passive-aggressive pop number about having one less problem without you. All Lance does is glance at Hunk while Hunk’s not watching, with his face twisted up so much, it looks like Lance is whining, even though he isn’t.

A Nickelback song makes Lance groan about the lack of taste going on up in this karaoke night. He, by how own testimony, just can’t. An attempt at protesting — _“Sure, it got overplayed back when it first came out,”_ Keith insists, _“but come on, it’s not that bad a song, and Nickelback isn’t that bad either”_ — only makes Lance roll his eyes. Pidge tries needling Lance about his outfit again, but all she gets is a shrug and Lance supposing that she’ll see an answer soon enough — _“That is, if you shut up long enough to keep us from killing each other.”_

In turn, she rolls her eyes and grimaces at Keith. If she’s looking for someone to commiserate, she gets it. There’s nothing wrong with surprises and Keith doesn’t want to be a douchebag, but he sighs in relief when Lance skulks over to wait by the side of the stage.

“You don’t have to pull punches now,” Ryou says drily. “He’s not here to have his self-esteem wounded.”

“Dude, _seriously_?” Keith huffs. “I know he’s a pain in the ass sometimes, but you’re not really making his bad mood _better_.”

Ryou shrugs. “I’m not trying to improve his mood. I want to make him stop taking it out on the rest of us.”

“I just wanna know what the Hell he’s supposed to be dressed as,” says Pidge, draining the rest of her drink. “We know that it’s _something_ related to his song. We know that he’s referencing a movie. Considering it’s Lance and karaoke night, we can infer that it’s a rom-com and not an action movie or anything with aliens—”

“His hair is too short for it,” Allura chimes in, “but his outfit _does_ rather remind me of… Is he fond of Heath Ledger?”

“Not like _Pidge_ is,” Hunk drawls. When she gently punches him in the arm, he balks. “ _What_?! You always say that Heath Ledger was your parents’ only real chance of getting grandkids out of you! Because he’s the only guy you’d ever want to be with, except now he’s all dead and stuff and you can’t—”

“Yeah, like you can talk!” Pidge swats at Hunk again and only hits him because he tries to duck out of her way. “How many times have I caught you sighing over _A Knight’s Tale_ or _The Dark Knight_ like they’re _Ten Things I Hate About You_? How many times have you been all, ‘Oh, but Lance borrowed my copy of that one and I really super needed’—”

“Guys, please. I don’t think Lance is doing anything with Heath Ledger.”

Sighing, Shiro shakes his head and rubs at Keith’s bicep. Feels like he’s trying to steady himself more than anything, like he’s clinging to that contact with Keith because he enjoys it and maybe, it’s helping him stay grounded in the conversation. Whether or not there’s any real danger of him spacing out, Keith noses at Shiro’s cheek. While Shiro’s thinking things over, Keith presses a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth. He trails the backs of his fingers along Shiro’s forehead and tucks his bangs behind his ear. Shiro smiles, but still doesn’t have anything to say.

“What song is this?” Keith mutters, when he gets feeling like Shiro might not speak up again. “And why does the singer sound familiar?”

“It’s The Killers, man,” says Hunk. “You’ve never heard ‘Just Another Girl’?”

“Obviously, I haven’t. Or if I have, then I can’t remember it—”

“ _Anyway_ ,” Shiro pipes up again. “I don’t think Lance is going to do anything related to Heath Ledger. I think he’s been on-edge all night, and he’s nervous about whatever he’s gonna do. But in all likelihood, it’s because he wants it to mean _something_ to Hunk—”

“Which he would definitely accomplish with the _Ten Things_ reference,” says Pidge.

Shiro opens his mouth to answer that, but the applause briefly cuts him off.

When it dies down, he sighs. “I think Lance learned from mine and Keith’s previous karaoke mistakes, though. There’s a pretty big difference between him hypothetically picking a song that Hunk likes, and him trying to, I don’t know… Make a scene like what you’re thinking—”

“Considering how often Lance needs to learn from experience before understanding any given point?” Ryou counters. “I think that he would absolutely try what you’re—”

Instead of applause, Ryou gets cut off by a mid-tempo, baying horn line. In nearly perfect unison, everybody at the table groans — except for Hunk. Through the first few bars of the music, he doesn’t say anything. Keith whips his legs off of Shiro’s lap and turns to Hunk. He doesn’t look away from Lance, standing at center-stage with both hands wrapped murderous serpent-tight around the microphone. Hunk doesn’t even rouse when Keith nudges at his bicep. Wide-eyed, he stays so still that he might’ve turned into a statue. If Lance can see Hunk’s expression through the spotlight, Keith can’t tell.

Largely because Lance looks like he’s gonna puke all over everything as he shuts his eyes and croons, “ _You’re just too good to be true_ —”

“Oh, for fuck’s sakes,” Pidge huffs.

“— _Can’t take my eyes off of yoooou_ —”

“Why is he doing this—” Shiro pinches the bridge of his nose, grinding at his scar.

“— _You’d be like Heaven to touch_ —”

“Because he’s a lovesick _idiot_ , Kashi,” hisses Ryou. “Same reason as you back in Chicago—”

“— _I wanna hold you soooo much._ ” At least Lance probably can’t hear his friends’ babbling. Undaunted, as if there’s nothing whatsoever going on and certainly no one judging his choices, he keeps singing, “ _At long last love has arrived, and I thank God I’m alive—_ ”

“I don’t know, I think it’s sweet?” Allura whispers. “Perhaps the execution is a bit questionable? But overall, though?”

“— _You’re just too good to be true_ …” Lance opens his eyes. As if there were any questions about his intent, he points at Hunk with a lopsided grin. “ _Can’t take my eyes off of you_ …”

“Ditto with Allura,” says Matt. “It’s risky, but come on, he could’ve done _way_ worse—”

“ _Pardon the way that I stare_ ,” Lance warbles. “ _There’s nothing else to compare_ —”

Fighting back a heavy sigh, Keith squeezes Hunk’s shoulder.

“— _The sight of you leaves me weak—_ ”

He edges closer to Hunk’s side. He swallows thickly, seeing one of Hunk’s hands balled in a fist. Maybe Hunk wants to throw a punch. Maybe he’s doing like Keith and digging his nails into his palm. Neither option is good. But Hunk’s arm trembles as Lance keeps going—

“— _There are no words left to speak—_ ”

That lyric’s fitting, regardless of Lance’s intentions. Because looking up at Hunk right now, Keith can’t think of anything to say. He can’t even figure out what to make of the tight expression that knots up Hunk’s entire face. The rigid way he presses his lips together looks like he could turn coal into diamonds all on his own.

“— _But if you feel like I feel—_ ”

Aside from Hunk’s mouth, though, he’s practically blank. His eyes stare straight ahead, dead at Lance without any of Hunk’s usual vitality. No impish spark, no glimmer of curiosity, no guilty shifting like he’s up to something and doesn’t want anybody finding out. If he’d wrinkle his nose or furrow his brow or grimace like he’s gonna yell at Lance when this is over, Keith could handle it better. He could try to respond more helpfully, the way _friends_ are supposed to do. Looking angry or disgusted wouldn’t be _great_ , but at least Hunk would look like _something_ in particular and Keith could _work with that_.

“— _Please let me know that it’s real—_ ”

Instead, Keith curls his fingers around Hunk’s and tries to ease him out of making a fist. He whispers things he doesn’t entirely believe about how this is all okay and Lance probably didn’t mean anything — nothing untoward anyway — and please, Big Man, how about we just stop making the fist and let Keith see if your hand is okay—

“— _You’re just too good to be true…_ ” Quivering with desperation, Lance’s grin looks like he’s forcing it on himself at gunpoint. His lips are stretched so thin, Keith can hardly see them, and the color’s quickly draining from his face. But he points to Hunk again and sings the line again, “ _Can’t take my eyes off of yooooou!_ ”

In swings the too-familiar horn section, picking up the tempo (or seeming to, as far as Keith can tell). Whatever nerves might be plaguing Lance, that music makes them wither up and die. Or maybe it’s the person catcalling him from another table. Maybe it’s both. In any case, Lance smirks out at the crowd as if he knows exactly what he’s doing. He rolls his shoulders as if he’s preening and puffs himself up like the world’s dumbest peacock. He yanks the mic off its stand. He fumbles and briefly gets tangled in the cord, but he catches the mic before it hits the floor. It feels like everyone in the room gasps at this feat, save Hunk and Keith.

Once Lance has gotten himself set right, he launches into dancing like his life depends on it. He lunges to the side of the stage with his arms flung open. Without missing a beat, he springs back up and shimmies to the other end. All the way over there, he swivels his hips like a third-tier Elvis impersonator — but in fairness, Lance would only get knocked on how much he resembles the King. Sure, he has the passion and the skill, but Lance can’t hold back on being himself. He could be dressed up as Elvis instead of Heath Ledger, and his writhing about would still be his own and no one else’s. Whether or not Lance truly appreciates this, his star shines so much brighter when he’s letting it be his own.

Performing obviously calls to Lance in a way he won’t get out of anything else that Keith can think of. When he looks back to Hunk, he’s beaming brighter than the spotlight, flashing all of his teeth like he’s a shark in human form. No matter what reactions Lance wants to get out of this, his panache makes Hunk seethe. His whole arm tenses and Keith can practically see the steam rising off of Hunk’s shoulders. As the music swells to the chorus, Lance pirouettes with flourish. Of course, he has to know what’s coming. No doubt, he’s building up to who-even-knows what kind of stunt. Because he’s _Lance_ , and that would be suitably dramatic, and—

“ _I love you, baby!_ ” He belts like he’s trying to outshine the entire history of Broadway divas. Knowing Lance, he damn well might be. “ _And if it’s quite alright, I need you, baaaaby, to warm the lonely night! I love you, baaaaaaby! Trust in me when Iiiiii saaaay…_ ”

With a deep breath, Lance flings himself to his knees. He slides to the edge of the stage and fixes his eyes on Hunk. “ _Oh, pretty baby, don’t bring me down, I pray! Oh, pretty baby, now that I’ve found you, stay — and let me love you, baaaaaaby. Let me loooooove yoooooou…_ ”

Rocking back, Lance eases himself up again. He softens as he slips back into the verses, which Keith would like to hope is good? After all, it could mean Lance is letting himself be vulnerable for real, even if he’s doing so through the conduit of Frankie Valli. On some level, he probably is. In all likelihood, that level means a lot to Lance. If Keith felt like putting money on anything, he’d bet that Lance’s self-exposure means as much to him as everything Keith put out there in his midterm essay, and that Lance is putting himself out here in a very similar way to what Keith did.

Except for how the rest of the crowd might as well stop existing for the rest of the song. Lance focuses on Hunk and Hunk alone — which isn’t necessarily bad? But it sure doesn’t seem to make Hunk feel better. Having Lance zeroed in on him makes him sink in his seat, not exactly curling in on himself without trying to hide. Instead, Hunk looks like he’s getting ready to pounce and possibly cuss Lance out. Whether he’s digging his nails into his palm or not, Hunk looks like he might not turn it down, if Lance asked, _“I want you to hit me as hard as you can”_ like they’re straight out of fucking _Fight Club_.

Strictly speaking, Keith doesn’t think he could blame Hunk for that, if it’s what he wants to do. Going at this head on would at least be better than sulking about it for four-and-a-half years, like Keith and Shiro did. But Keith _also_ doesn’t want to let Hunk run headlong into yelling at Lance, or doing anything too hasty. Which is maybe nice in theory, but squeezing Hunk’s arm doesn’t get him to relax. Whispering attempted reassurances doesn’t make him breathe any easier. Maybe Keith’s misinterpreting Hunk’s state of mind, and God, he hopes so, because he has no idea what else he can do but friends are supposed to help each other—

When the song is done, Lance tries to leave the stage with the mic still in-hand. He only even remembers to put it back when Te-Osh uses her own mic to ask if he means to let anybody else perform tonight. Lance blushes scarlet, running back to make his return. The crowd outside of his group’s table laughs at this, a few more people clap for him, and Lance grins as he waves at them. Heading off the stage, he keeps it up, smiling and waving like he just won a beauty pageant or married into royalty.

_Goddammit, Lance_ , Keith muses silently. _I don’t know what you think you’re playing at, but you aren’t helping._

“Hey, Big Man,” he whispers, kneading at Hunk’s bicep. “I don’t know what Lance is thinking, and I don’t know how you feel? But he _loves you_. Maybe he didn’t think this through, but come on. He wasn’t trying to do any—”

Hunk cuts Keith off not with words, but by standing up. He grabs up his jacket and Lance’s, but otherwise wastes no time in storming over to the stage. Dimly, Keith makes out Lance’s squawk as Hunk wrestles him into his jacket. Without another word, he drags Lance out the side-door to the street.

Up on the stage, the next person starts belting Eddie Money’s “Take Me Home Tonight.” Keith cringes into his Coke at the fact that he still remembers most of the words. He recognizes the next song too, but then again, most of the people in this bar have probably heard “(I Just) Died In Your Arms Tonight” at least once in their lives. The song after that, Keith only knows because of hearing Shiro and Mark argue about which was a better happy song from The Cure, “Just Like Heaven” or this one, “Friday I’m In Love.”

Every time Keith glances around the table, it seems like everybody’s hoping to avoid discussing anything. Maybe they’re all waiting for Hunk and Lance to get back before passing judgment — at least, that seems like Allura’s angle. She has one leg crossed on top of the other and she huffs over the rim of her glass, primly but with obvious impatience. On another hand, Matt and Pidge fuss with their phones in silence, as if they can make the elephant see itself out by simply tapping at the screens ‘til it gets bored. Leaning back in his seat, Ryou glances over at the door, then at his phone, then at his brother, who’s slumping, splaying his legs out under the table, and staring up at the ceiling as if it contains a map to find a long-lost, secret backup Library of Alexandria. Shiro has his arms folded over his chest and his ponytail drooping over the back of his chair. He doesn’t stir when Ryou clears his throat. He doesn’t acknowledge any of Ryou’s needling until Ryou gives up and just snaps, _“Kashi. Please pay attention to me.”_

Sighing, Shiro picks up his head and shrugs like Ryou can go on, if he wants to.

“Bad time to ask, I realize, but…” Ryou reaches over the table, holding out his phone. While Shiro squints at the screen, Ryou explains, “Sven and Slav are still playing _Counter-Strike_. No idea when they’re going to stop. I don’t suppose I can sleep at your place? Or should I crash with the Holts tonight? If Lance and Hunk need to have some more space from each other—”

“If Lance and Hunk need to have space from each other, one of them can come to our place,” says Pidge. She casts an icepick-pointed look over at Matt, who nods, pales, and buries his face back in his phone. “Anyway, if they don’t work things out, they’ll need more space than just being in separate bedrooms.”

“Thank you for the hospitality, Katie. But I was asking my brother—”

“I’m with Pidge,” Shiro says, shrugging far too easily for it to be completely earnest. At least he doesn’t try to fake a smile. Under the weight of Ryou’s incredulous, arched eyebrows, all Shiro does is sigh. “Look, we’re gonna need them to play together for Battle of the Bands tomorrow night. If they don’t work things out right now, they _will_ want more space, so Hunk will probably crash upstairs with Matt and Pidge.”

Shrugging, he tucks his white fringe back behind his ear. “Either way, I wouldn’t make you go home if Slav and Sven are gonna be up all night.”

Everyone goes silent again after that, as though the matter’s settled. They keep quiet through a very drunk take on “I Touch Myself,” and a much less drunk duet of “Need You Now.” In most situations, with most people, Keith wouldn’t mind the silence. But tonight, with this group? It’s making everyone else in the bar seem louder. In turn, that’s making Keith burn with the need to do _something_ that creates some noise and hopefully makes things at the table less awkward.

For want of something to do with his building energy, Keith taps at the free Solitaire game on his phone. He doesn’t even want to play with it or any other game, but he can’t find what the Hell is so interesting on the ceiling and Shiro doesn’t react to having his knee squeezed, which means making out with him is probably not on the table, at the moment. Without a conversation or any reactions to the other performers, Keith feels like there’s an army of gnomes tap-dancing on his nerves. He wants to shake Matt or Pidge or Ryou and demand that one of them say something snarky that might lighten the atmosphere. Hell, at this moment, Keith would even take one of the so-called jokes that he hates Shiro making because any reference to his self-loathing hits way too close to home.

Keith almost wishes that he needed to throw up. He’d hate doing it, but it’d be an excuse to leave the table, if nobody’s going to address any of what’s hanging over them. Pidge and Allura are fidgeting, too — but still, none of them says anything until a short-haired girl starts singing “Can’t Fight This Feeling Anymore.”

“Should…” Keith starts, slouching onto the table. “Should we go check on them? On Hunk? And Lance?”

“Hunk was gone longer when you chased him into the bathroom,” Ryou points out as though this actually answers Keith’s question. Huffing, he combs his fingers through his little tuft up front. “Look, I get that you probably want to help them? But right now, the best thing is for all of us _not_ to interfere. We need to let Lance and Hunk figure out their own relationship—”

“Oh, that’s what you’d do, is it?” Why this feels someone starting a forest fire in his chest, Keith doesn’t know. But he balls one hand up in his jeans to keep from digging his nails into his palm. Grinding his skin against the denim keeps him grounded, but it doesn’t make it any easier for Keith to keep from yelling. “You see the two of them run off like that, and you’d just _let them_? Without doing _anything_?”

“For the time being? Yes. Obviously.” Arching his eyebrow like that makes Ryou look like the world’s most obnoxious professor. Like Iverson and Kolivan put together, with none of their redeeming qualities. “I’m literally sitting here and telling you that leaving them be is currently the best course of action.”

Keith smacks the table. Plates and silverware clatter. Glasses rattle but don’t topple over. He snarls, “But what if they need _help_ —”

“That, they _might_ ,” Ryou says, unruffled. “But they also need space to be themselves, without any—”

“What if they’re fighting? What if they need a mediator or something—”

“They aren’t toddlers, Keith. They’re adults who can handle themselves—”

“They’re out there by themselves! What if they get _hurt_?”

“That’s a risk. They both have phones. If either of them gets injured, they can _call_ —”

“Look, maybe _you_ don’t like Lance and that’s fine. But it doesn’t mean that it’s okay for us to just let them—”

“ _Keith_ ,” Shiro sighs, reaching over to squeeze his shoulder. Sitting up, he scoots closer to the table and back to Keith’s side. “Hunk and Lance know how to take care of themselves. There are risks in letting them go off like this. But there’d be risks in chasing after them, too—”

“But they might _need somebody_. Friends aren’t supposed to…”

Keith hates how much he’s whining right now. He hates how little he fights himself about slumping back into Shiro’s chest. He _doesn’t_ hate how warm Shiro is or how everything feels stabler and more solid with his arms around Keith’s shoulders. Still, something in Keith burns hot. It’s ready and raring to fight with someone, anyone, based on the first justification he can find, no matter how flimsy it is and no matter how stupid Keith feels about it afterward—

It doesn’t entirely quell when Shiro kisses his ear and then his temple. But that coaxes Keith into taking a deep breath. When he sighs, he melts against Shiro and lets his head loll back onto Shiro’s shoulder. A few more deep breaths, and the crowd applauds for the REO Speedwagon girl. Keith rustles against Shiro’s chest and nearly manages a smile when Shiro kisses his forehead. _“Nearly”_ being the operative word. Calming down still leaves Keith with a cold, heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach. He doesn’t feel like he’ll have it in him to smile at all for a few months.

As Shiro combs his fingers through Keith’s bangs, Keith mutters, “Friends aren’t supposed to leave friends to deal with trouble alone, right?”

Shiro nods, but tells him, “Sometimes, friends also need to know when to back off, or when they can help best in less obvious ways. Giving Hunk and Lance room to hash things out for themselves does _not_ mean that you’re being a bad friend.”

Makes sense enough, when Shiro puts it that way. Or maybe the warmth flooding Keith’s chest is just coming from the feeling like he could too happily spend the rest of the night right here in Shiro’s arms. The people who operate the bar would likely disapprove. It’s already slightly past midnight and they have to meet closing time at some point, so they’d want for Keith and Shiro to leave and that’d be fair enough. They have lives, too. They want to go home. But left to his own devices, Keith would gladly nod off with Shiro hugging him close like this.

Whatever’s making things feel semi-decent now, Keith doesn’t get to have his not-quite-wish. Shiro still has his second song to do, and again, closing time is a thing that they’ll have to respect eventually. While a different short-haired girl sings that “Take Me To Church” song Allura loves so much, Pidge points out that, according to the screen, Shiro’s up next. As if the table’s mood didn’t completely crash following Lance’s stunt, Shiro wriggles away with a last, soft kiss to Keith’s temple. Heaving a sigh, Keith slumps onto the table. He doesn’t feel like apologizing for snapping at Ryou, but Allura throws him a _Look_ that suggests it might be a good idea.

All Ryou does, at first, is shrug. “Apology accepted, but unnecessary. If it were Lance, I might want one, but I also wouldn’t believe it from Lance.”

“Fine, but what _is_ your problem with him?” Keith shoves his bangs back off his face. “Like, I totally understand having problems with Lance, but—”

“For the most part, it’s a personality conflict, much like what the two of you apparently had.” With a shallow, agitated sigh, Ryou crosses his legs and folds his hands up in his lap. “To be clear, though? I don’t _dis_ like Lance? He is my least favorite person who came out here tonight and we mix about as well as my brother and a kitchen. But he isn’t a terrible person. He’s been a good friend to your paramour and helped see Kashi through some fairly difficult moments in his recovery—”

Pidge cuts in to clear things up: “Ryou loses his patience with Lance because Lance… was kind of an ass to him. Specifically, about his fantasy of making out with two good-looking twins. And then Lance kept trying to bring it up for, like, six months. And he only wound up _stopping_ …” She shrugs and makes an uncertain, throaty noise. “Well, it was either because Shiro told him to stop, or because he realized he was in love with Hunk. Exact answer depends on when you ask him.”

“In either case?” Huffing, Ryou rests his cheek in his palm. “It _wasn’t_ because I told him, ‘No.’”

Nodding in understanding, Keith tries to change the subject: “Do _you_ know which George Michael song your brother’s doing for me?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea.” Which should probably give Ryou ample reason not to roll his eyes, but he does it anyway. “It isn’t ‘Careless Whisper’ or ‘I Want Your Sex.’ At least, I hope that it’s not the latter—”

“You and literally everyone else at this table,” says Pidge. To Keith, she adds, “Not that Matt knows _why_ , exactly—”

“But I’ve just seen him do it too many times? I’m kinda over it, y’know?” How Matt can make such a blasé expression right now is beyond Keith. “I mean, okay, yeah, it’s hot as sin when he does that song? Totally tacky but in a good way? But… eh? I’m bored with Shiro doing ‘I Want Your Sex.’”

“Personally, I wouldn’t mind watching his performance of that song?” Allura offers Keith a sheepish grin. “But under different circumstances—”

“You don’t have to apologize for thinking he’s hot, Princess.” As the crowd applauds, Keith shoots her an affectionate smirk.

“Anyway,” says Matt, “I know what he’s doing. But I’m not supposed to tell you, _and_ I’ve never heard the song before. Literally all I know is that it’s by George Michael and Shiro thinks that it’s a big deal. Which it might be in other people’s minds, but… Hell if I know.”

Keith could try asking more about that. But on the other hand, it’s easier to watch Shiro take center-stage again. He adjusts the mic-stand and brings it up to his height. As he nods toward Te-Osh, he curls one hand around the microphone. Looking down at the stage, Shiro sighs as a slow, mellow mix of strings and synthesizers starts up on the speakers. Cringing, Ryou buries his face in his palm. He’s muttering under his breath in what sounds like exasperation with his brother over something or other about this song choice, who even knows what.

“ _Kindness in your eyes_ ,” Shiro sings like a promise. “ _I guess you heard me cry…_ ”

“Kashi, _honestly_ ,” Ryou hisses. “I swear to _God_ —”

“What?” Allura whispers. “It’s a lovely song—”

Thankfully, the two of them and Pidge keep their voices low. At least, low enough that Keith can still hear Shiro.

Maybe he should chime in on the discussion, defending Shiro while he isn’t here to do it himself. Standing up for him about this song, even without any idea what Ryou’s problem with it is. Could be anything, really. Not enough for him to object in earnest, which is open-ended. Several possible meanings could be pretty bad. As many of them could indicate plenty of questionable things about Shiro’s emotional state.

But Keith cranes his neck instead of pondering what the song means for either of the twins. He can’t get much closer to the stage without moving to a different table. No matter how much Keith wants to do that, none of the open ones seems inviting. They’re too far away. Some have garbage and empty glasses sitting on them. Anyway, he’d need to focus on something other than Shiro and his song. Still, Keith hangs on every syllable that Shiro lets out, each note that eases past his lips. From here, it’s hard to tell whether or not he’s watching the screen that’s spelling out the lyrics. His face ties itself up in knots as he keeps singing about the blessings he recognizes this, and learning from pain that, and thinking that he’d never feel the same about anyone or anything again, but knowing now—

Shiro’s fingers clench tighter around the microphone, white-knuckling on it like he’s clinging on for dear life. If the tremble of his lips is anything to go by, he might be. Keith grabs up his jeans again, digging the denim against his palm. Holding his breath isn’t intentional. There’s only a few seconds of music without singing, but Keith’s lungs twist around themselves. They refuse to let him breathe until Shiro’s voice picks up again.

“ _When you find love…_ ” His other hand wraps around the mic-stand as if he needs to steady himself. “ _When you know that it exists, then the lover that you miss will come to you on those cold, cold nights…_ ”

_Do you want me to hold you to that?_ , Keith keeps to himself, dragging his teeth along his lower lip. _I **can** hold you to that, if you—_

Derailing Keith’s thoughts more effectively than anyone, Shiro keeps going as if nothing could deter him. God, Keith hopes it doesn’t. Never ever. However long the song is wouldn’t feel like enough time for this. Even if Shiro isn’t looking at him right now, he’s singing for Keith and that means _everything_. His voice quivers on the exact right notes. With a deep breath, he closes his eyes. He leaves them shut while putting so much more into the song. Not more volume, not more force, but more of himself. Every sigh he breathes out makes Shiro’s effort plain. His face spells out everything in the tight, desperate way that his eyebrows curl toward each other.

Watching Shiro right now — watching him perform so much without dancing or moving hardly at all — it hurts. Listening to him croon sends shocks stabbing and writhing through Keith’s chest. More than once, Keith gasps because he briefly forgot how to keep breathing during one of Shiro’s pauses. It only gets worse as the song goes on, as he intones the lines about how many years he’s waited and a love that got taken away, about a love that saved his soul and singing the words that his lover cannot say on his own.

When Shiro finally looks at Keith, Keith’s heart skips two beats. Or maybe three. Biting on his lip, Keith can’t tell. All he’s aware of — all that matters right now — is the unguarded, earnest expression. Something glimmers in his eyes. Maybe tears or maybe impulse. Hell, it could even be both and Keith’s entire body shivers. The edge of the table digs into his stomach as he tries to defy physics and lean closer.

“ _For every memory_ ,” Shiro swears, “ _has become a part of me. You will always be my love…_ ”

“Ryou?” Keith whispers, barely aware of what his mouth is doing for him. “If we don’t come back, can you get Shiro’s bag? And my backpack?”

“Not that I _mind_?” Ryou drawls. “But which one is _your_ —”

“It is one of only two backpacks by the table,” Allura points out. “It’s black instead of green like Pidge’s—”

“Thanks, Princess,” says Keith. Getting to his feet, he pulls on his hoodie. He grabs up Shiro’s and drapes it over one arm. The song’s still playing but there _cannot_ be that much left to it. There just _can’t_ be. “I’ll try to get us back here to get our things, but? In case we don’t? Thanks, Ryou.”

“No trouble.” Grumbling, Ryou waves a hand toward the door. “Go on. Ask Kashi to rip all your clothes off already.”

*** * ***

Shiro gasps into Keith’s mouth as he smacks into the brick wall. Freezing, icy air scrapes against his tongue and the inside of his throat.

Still, Shiro yearns for Keith to pick things up, to kiss him again. He keeps himself rigid enough that his head doesn’t hit the wall, but he melts when Keith’s hand snakes around to the back of his neck. More kisses must be in the cards. The hungry edge behind Keith’s expression says everything. Shiro draws in another deep breath, getting ready for what’s coming, and curls an arm around Keith’s waist. He rests his hand at the small of Keith’s back, gently kneading his fingertips against Keith’s flesh and his spine.

Pressing against Shiro’s chest and stomach, Keith hesitates. He’s already standing on his toes, that pause cannot be comfortable. But for a moment, he’s fixated on Shiro’s mouth. In the next, he’s almost trembling. He doesn’t huddle closer to Shiro, though. It can’t be from the cold, if he isn’t clinging to the warmth. Keith sets his jaw as he meets Shiro’s eyes.

“Is this okay?” he says. “I don’t — I mean, I want to kiss you? I want that so much, Shiro. But only if you—”

“God, Keith. _Please_ , yes.” As if it helps make his point — hopefully, it does, but who can tell — Shiro leans down. He closes in on Keith. He hovers right within Keith’s kissing distance and whispers, “Kiss me as many times as it takes to make you happy.”

Keith wrinkles his nose. “What about making _you_ happy?”

Softly, Shiro bumps his nose against Keith’s cheek. “I’m happy kissing you. If you want to. As many times as you want. As many times as it ta—”

Yanking them together desperately, Keith shoves his mouth back into Shiro’s. He curls his free hand around Shiro’s shoulder. He kisses firmly, hungrily, like Shiro has the secret to eternal life buried in his lungs. As if Keith can draw that secret out by biting on Shiro’s lip and sucking on his tongue. Moaning into Keith’s mouth, Shiro holds onto him so he can’t let Keith slip away from him again. He tightens the embrace, caresses Keith’s hip. He inhales sharply as Keith’s soft stomach crowds in and pushes up against his own. Breath could barely sneak between them, they’ve left so little space between their bodies.

Keith reaches up and rests his hand behind Shiro’s head. Urges him to keep kissing. He fumbles with no clear angle at work, until he jostles Shiro’s ponytail loose. That gets a warm, pleasant, throaty noise out of Keith’s throat as he combs his fingers through Shiro’s hair. He brushes it out. Barely lets any of it flop against the back of Shiro’s neck when Keith could play with it himself instead. Thank God Shiro got a shower this morning; his hair’s should still be soft, the way Keith likes it. They could keep kissing while Keith loses his hands in the texture, twines his fingers up in Shiro’s hair. But Keith doesn’t go in for another, yet. He only sighs, still copping feels of the texture.

He’s not completely spacing out, though. As Shiro trails his hand down Keith’s back, Keith nods to let him know that each touch is okay. Shiro bumps his knuckles against Keith’s back pocket, then pulls it back. Keith smirks as if his cheeks aren’t flushing pink. He nods again. He grinds his hips into Shiro’s, and he gives up a breathy, contented little noise when Shiro takes a hard, full-palmed grope of his ass.

Nuzzling at him, Shiro mutters, “I want—”

Down the alleyway, someone bangs on something metallic. Keith startles, jerking back. Shiro holds up his hands as if they’ve actually been busted making out. Heat starts on his cheeks and starts ebbing down his neck. He glances toward the streetlight — nobody. At least, no one who’s noticing anything going on in the shadows. He looks toward the dumpster.

He needs a moment to puzzle out what he’s seeing, but Shiro sighs in relief when he puts it all together. Only Hunk and Lance. Aside from being safe in general, neither of them’s paying attention. Back to the wall, Lance has both arms around Hunk’s shoulders. He’s clinging to their kiss as if separating might literally kill him. One of Hunk’s hands rubs down Lance’s side, from his waist and over his hip and part-way down his thigh, then it goes back up again. Another clanging noise echoes through the alley.

“Um…” Shiro purses his lips.

Blinking at his friends, he _knows_ that he remembers how to use his words. But it feels like there’s a blank space where his brain should be. Lowering his hands gets Keith to squeeze one of Shiro’s wrists. In turn, that gets Shiro through saying, “Well, I guess that they worked things out? Seems like it’s for the better?”

Keith wrinkles his nose, but nods. “We should give them some privacy. Or relative to the location, I mean.”

Gingerly flicking Keith’s bangs off his forehead, Shiro whispers, “Hey. D’you want to go home?”

For a moment, Keith seems to falter. He knots his brow. His fingers slacken, yet he doesn’t let go of Shiro’s wrist. Taking deep, slow breaths, Keith blinks up at Shiro and the cogs spinning in his head make themselves obvious. Shiro can’t guess what they mean, but whatever’s going on in Keith’s mind, he leans into the contact when Shiro cups his cheek. His expression goes soft — much softer than it would if anybody else were here to see Keith being so open. He crowds in on Shiro again, drops his eyes to look at Shiro’s mouth or neck or collarbone. Somewhere other than Shiro’s face, that’s all he knows for certain.

In the end, Keith says nothing. Another nod, then he wastes no time at all. Without warning, he yanks Shiro out to the sidewalk and down the block, heading toward the apartment. Toward _home_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In other news: 1. karaoke shouldn’t be such a pain in the neck to write about, and 2. iron-deficient anemia sucks and I absolutely would not recommend it.
> 
> Tangentially: the actual talk that happened between Hunk and Lance is pretty much at the top of my list of side-pieces to write, seeing as it’s a scene cut from the main story (and one that I would’ve preferred to keep, but it was throwing things off and making this chapter all feel oddly balanced), instead of backstory that I just think is neat, or misadventures that don’t have that much bearing on the main story but I enjoyed them. For the moment, my main fic priority is chapter twenty ~~because it’s seriously been more than long enough coming (and you lot and Sheith all deserve it, you’ve waited long enough)~~ , but the cut-scene with Hunk and Lance is up there on the list with chapters 21 and 22.
> 
> Also, I have two other fics to work on, but that’s a balancing act that I need to figure out in general. And they’re both for events or exchanges, rather than tied to this one. But either way. Until next time, buds. ♡


	20. when you’ve been loved, when you know it holds such bliss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy holidays, it’s The Smut Chapter. Its title comes from George Michael’s “Jesus to a Child,” for the exact same reason that chapters 18 and 19 shamelessly lifted their titles from Olivia Newton-John and Dolly Parton, respectively.
> 
> The Smut Chapter features, among other things: biting/marking; finger-sucking; hair-pulling; a constant undercurrent of mutual hurt/comfort because I’m incorrigible; some references to Keith’s body, made in the context of, “There is more softness here than Shiro remembers and it’s different but he likes it and in case anyone has missed the memo, he is so in love with Keith”; some references to Shiro self-harming and his abuse from Sendak, made in the context of Keith seeing the scars these things left Shiro with; and top!Keith/bottom!Shiro (……and Keith being a little shit about getting Shiro flustered while asking him what he wants).
> 
> If any of that doesn’t sound like your bag, then please feel free to mentally substitute the smut that you’d like better and cut straight to the afterglow by clicking: **right here**. ♡

How they keep themselves together for so long is beyond Shiro, at this point.

Realistically, he knows that it doesn’t even take that long to get from the bar to the apartment. No longer than usual. Keith only hesitates to confirm that he’s getting the directions right. He _is_ pulling them home on a route he hasn’t used before; it makes sense that he’d need a few pointers, if he doesn’t want to let Shiro take the lead.

Circumstances _want_ them to get on with things, or so it seems. They hit more stop-lights that let them move ahead without any waiting. Only one of the two who tries successfully gives them pause. Keith spends the whole time rocking up onto the balls of his feet then back onto his heels, sighing at the traffic that keeps them from crossing without so much as rolling his eyes.

The second is only two blocks off from the apartment, on a street so dead that Keith glances up and down, then he nods and drags Shiro into the crosswalk. So many ways that this could go wrong. Each second is an opportunity for _something awful_ to come out of nowhere and befall them and ruin any notions that either of them has about how this night should go. They could end up in the emergency room. They could get hit by a bus and die together. They could stumble into a science-fiction anomaly that no one would expect, whether they’re in their right mind or not — a wormhole in the middle of the street that dumps them in some far-off galaxy, a pocket of manipulated space-time that folds around them like a taco and doesn’t let them out, a rip in reality that zaps them to another universe entirely — or something else that’s equally improbable but not entirely impossible.

Yet, they make it to the other side of the street unharmed. Keith charges ahead toward the awning outside Shiro’s building. He doesn’t look back. He doesn’t hold Shiro’s hand any more tightly than he has before. If anything, his grip feels _slacker_ , like he trusts, even for this simple, fleeting moment, that Shiro will stay behind him. That Shiro’s still here with him. That Shiro isn’t drifting off or disappearing or being taken away from him again. Like he only keeps their fingers laced together while Shiro gets them inside because Keith enjoys that point of contact.

All of this is cause for gratitude. Squeezing Keith’s hand and watching him blush bright pink — Shiro’s thankful to have that chance, to get to see this. Considering all the opportunities that the universe has to make things go wrong and what kind of a miracle it is that life exists at all, much less that Keith and Shiro exist and have each other, Shiro shouldn’t glare up at the illuminated numbers that say one elevator’s inching its way down from the top floor, the middle one is going up to who-knows-which floor, and the third one is, for whatever reason, paused on the tenth floor, going nowhere.

Shiro should focus on the way Keith rubs his thumb against the back of Shiro’s hand. The fact that they go here so quickly, and the fact that their walk over could’ve taken so much longer. The fact that they didn’t have to go back to the bar to get their things, because Keith says Ryou agreed to get it home for them. The smile that Keith gives him just before the elevator’s doors slide open, all soft and open in ways Keith doesn’t let himself show off to hardly anybody. Any impatience could cast doubt on any claims about how grateful Shiro is for all of this.

But Shiro pulls Keith into a kiss as soon as the doors close. Cradling Keith’s cheek in one hand, Shiro sighs into his mouth. Some part of him hopes that the elevator stops again, so they can stay in here longer. So Keith can have more time to pull them back against the wall, tugging Shiro down instead of standing on his toes. So Shiro can suck on Keith’s lip, and try to figure out what all he’s tasting in Keith’s mouth, and gasp when Keith palms at his ass, slipping a hand into one of Shiro’s pockets. So they don’t have to worry about timing when Keith huffs and goes for Shiro’s other pocket when the first one has his wallet in it. So they can lock lips without any interruption or needing to relocate.

Except they _do_ need to move. Shiro fumbles about getting them into the apartment. He kicks off his sneakers after failing to toe out of them as easily as Keith does his. That makes Keith snort like this is the funniest thing he’s seen all week. God, what do Shiro’s shoes have against him tonight? Why do they hate him?

Whatever, though — as soon as Keith tugs on Shiro’s hoodie, none of that matters anymore. Not when he has Keith here with him. Not when Keith’s asking whether or not Shiro means to finish what he’s started. Wrapping his arms around Keith’s waist, Shiro stoops into Keith’s embrace so he won’t need to get up on his toes or strain his neck so much when they kiss. While one of Keith’s arms snakes around Shiro’s shoulders, he shoves the other’s fingers into one of Shiro’s belt-loops like he can’t stand the idea of Shiro getting away from him.

Fair enough. The thought of separation makes Shiro’s own heart thrash inside his chest, racing one second and the next, stopping as if it’s forgotten how to beat. With a deep breath, Shiro puts his mouth back to work on Keith’s. His shoulders tense as he tightens his hold on Keith. Thank God or somebody for the breathy, longing way Keith moans and the moment he takes to nod that this is okay with him.

Gamboling backwards, Keith doesn’t break off from kissing Shiro again. It’s like he’d rather die. He only lets up when one of them needs to come up for air. At that, even when he needs to breathe, Keith refuses to pull back too far from Shiro’s face. Steadying himself, he peppers smaller kisses around Shiro’s jaw, his cheeks, the corners of his mouth. He balls a hand up tight in Shiro’s sweatshirt, clings on like letting him move away, even only slightly and for any reason that could come up, would be the worst of all possible fates.

Not that Shiro disagrees. Not that he’d have their bodies positioned any other way unless Keith wanted that. Not that he, himself, wants anything else but Keith and whatever else might come out of getting tangled up in him again. He barely manages to steer them around the coffee-table, in the right direction of his room, but they’ll get there. He’ll be draped around Keith the whole time, exactly where he belongs. Even in the moments of gasping for breath, this closeness feels too warm, too _good_ , too inexplicably _right_ for Shiro to pass up or pull away from. This contact is everything. Maybe not everything that Shiro’s ever wanted. But everything he wants right now, and all it takes to make him happy.

Just outside Shiro’s room, Keith pushes him back into the wall. A faint smell of coffee lingers around him as he noses at Shiro’s neck and collarbone, as he jerks on Shiro’s belt-loop. He doesn’t stop until Shiro spreads his legs enough for Keith to wriggle between his thighs. With the space freed up, Keith slinks in and nestles himself up against Shiro’s chest. His hips bat against Shiro’s, but it almost feels accidental. Like Keith’s too focused on making sure there’s no space between their chests to pay mind to their hips. Too busy concentrating on Shiro’s face, then sighing against the Shiro’s neck. Too fixated on deciding what he wants to do more: watch how Shiro looks at him and hopefully see how much Shiro loves him, or swoop in on Shiro’s Adam’s apple with a kiss, sucking hard and dragging his teeth along the skin with the clear intent to leave a mark.

With a soft sigh, Shiro squeezes Keith’s side. He whispers, “Oh God, yes. God, Keith, _please_ ” — and something chilly squirms around inside his chest, saying it still is not enough. Not clear enough, nowhere near enough. Even leaning his head back to give Keith a better angle might not be enough. Keith could still get it in his head that Shiro doesn’t consent to this. He might not feel the way every inch of Shiro yearns for one of Keith’s bruises, one of those undeniable signs of how much Keith loves Shiro, right out in the open where anyone could see it.

After what feels like too many moments, Keith presses a gentler, briefer kiss over the spot he’s worked over. “Please _what_?”

“Please _anything_ ,” Shiro whines. He writhes against Keith as if this somehow makes his point. As if there can be no more mistakes between them.

In case there still are, Shiro tries to expose whatever skin of his neck Keith can’t already get at. He can’t tilt his head back any further. The wall’s in his way. But he tries. Shiro rolls out his shoulders. He lets that motion flow down the length of his chest. He nudges his hips into Keith’s, clutching Keith’s side to secure himself — Shiro shudders when Keith rubs against him, when the soft curve of Keith’s tummy crowds in on Shiro’s abs — he tries to stretch his legs further, like maybe it’ll lower him, get him closer to Keith’s level. Maybe doing this will unlock that exact right angle. Anything to feel like he has a bit more room to give Keith more access to his neck. Any part of his neck that Keith wants. Like Keith’s going to make good on laying his claim.

All this does is make Keith tut. Shaking his head ghosts his lips along Shiro’s skin. “Too vague,” he says. “Not very helpful.”

A groan shambles out of Shiro’s chest. Pushes and strains against his throat on the way up. God, Keith can _not_ be serious.

Except he is. He obviously is. Shiro not wanting to believe the truth doesn’t make it go away. As the rest of his body sags, his arms clasp even tighter around Keith’s waist. Lips quirking like they might smile, Shiro jerks him so close that there’s barely enough room for their clothes to act as boundaries between them. This earns a noise from Keith that’s almost but not quite a gasp. His back tenses under Shiro’s arm and his slightly chapped lips quiver against Shiro’s skin. But before too long, Keith relaxes.

Huffing like he can’t believe Shiro would try that, Keith worms a hand to the small of Shiro’s back. He mutters something that sounds like, _“Asshole”_ but too quietly for Shiro to tell. All up, affectionate. Yet, there’s something sharp to it. Something hungry.

Maybe that hungry something’s real, not just Shiro’s imagination — but for all he mouths at Shiro’s neck, Keith doesn’t give up another kiss. He chuckles without saying anything. Drumming his finger-tips on the base of Shiro’s spine, he waits. It’d be so easy to guess that he’s hesitating. To assume that he’s feeling uncertain of this now, and maybe he wants to call this off, maybe he wants to sleep over without having sex or maybe he just wants to get a ride home.

Except Keith isn’t hesitating. He knows what he’s doing, lingering here like this. Brushing his face up and down Shiro’s neck. Teasing his fingers under Shiro’s clothes and lazily scraping his nails on Shiro’s skin. Inching away from Shiro as each deep breath sucks in his stomach. Nudging back against Shiro every time he sighs it back out. But refusing to bite Shiro again, or lick him, or suck on the still-warm, achy spot that he’s left behind. Instead, Keith digs harder at Shiro’s back. He scratches, not deeply but _oh, so well._

Gasping could be enough for Keith — maybe he could content himself with nearly making Shiro choke on his own breath — but he doesn’t smirk against Shiro’s jaw until he drags a moan out of Shiro’s mouth. He chuckles like he’s so pleased with himself, and Shiro’s heart wrenches like it wants to burst out of his chest. Fumbling one-handed, he tries to brush his fingers through Keith’s hair. Instead, he knocks off Keith’s elastic, but in a way, isn’t that mission accomplished? Keith’s hair is free. And Shiro’s free to lose his hand in those thick, black locks. While Keith rocks at his hips, Shiro sneaks his fingers into Keith’s fringe. Then, in further. Inhaling sharply, he gets ready and twines them up and tugs—

—and all Keith does is kiss his jaw. No yelping, no whining, no signs that he felt anything.

Practically silent, Keith grabs onto Shiro’s befuddled pausing. He claws at Shiro’s side, this time, snickering as he draws his nails over Shiro’s skin. It earns a gasp, but that’s not all. As the breath stutters back into Shiro’s lungs, something warm shudders down his chest. He loosens his hold on Keith’s waist. Not that he _wants_ to, but if he needs to regain his center, then maybe he needs to remember where the lines are between him and Keith. Maybe getting completely lost in Keith — getting out of his own head, getting into all the desires latent in Keith’s grip and his lips and his hot, hot breath, and getting away from himself — maybe that isn’t what’s best for Shiro, isn’t what he _really_ wants.

For a moment, Shiro breathes more easily with that slight space between them. But when Keith scrapes at him another time, the heat retaliates. Shocking through him again, it sends Shiro’s hips rolling into Keith’s, makes him tug Keith back into place, flush and soft, sweltering against Shiro’s front. Shiro’s brain hasn’t let him chase all the contact that he yearns for. Everything’s fallen on his body taking the lead for him.

Good thing Shiro’s body knows damn well what he wants. The pain from Keith’s scratching leaves behind an absence. Twinging inside Shiro’s chest, it yells at him to grind on Keith harder. Rub up on his hips and let him know that he hasn’t lost Shiro again, that Shiro’s still here, wanting him. He’ll feel so much better, so says this impulse, with his abs pressing into Keith’s stomach, with Keith’s little roll of pudge snugging on him like a caress. Besides, he wants to touch Keith, doesn’t he? If Keith wants to let him? So it only makes sense. Shiro’s heart won’t need to writhe around his chest so much if he snakes his hips up on Keith’s hips like he can’t bear to let Keith slip away again.

Bucking into Keith makes him rock back into Shiro. That pressure washes over Shiro in waves, comforting and easy because there’s that feeling again: he’s safe, exactly where he wants to be, and with this guy he loves _so much_ , it hurts. His dick takes notice, too. Twitches against Keith’s stomach as he rolls into Shiro. Quivers as Keith grazes Shiro’s hips with his own and with the hint of doughy belly that Keith’s sweatshirt teases Shiro with. But even as Keith rubs up on him, Shiro doesn’t get fully hard. Still, Shiro has a shelter here, and he has Keith. He has his hand, copping a feel of Keith’s plump ass. He has Keith gasping into his mouth, mewling when he tries not to moan.

Before Shiro can let himself relax, though, Keith’s fingers hook under the waistband of his jeans. Shuffling backward, he hauls Shiro with him. Drags him around the corner and into Shiro’s room — good call, that. Very good call. Impatiently, Keith groans while Shiro digs his heels in. Doesn’t mean much. He could tug harder, if he really wanted to be at the mattress right now.

Keith can whine as much as he likes, though. Shiro has to hold up and flick on the lights. He needs to kick at the door until it closes for him because he _will not_ have Lance or Hunk or Ryou walking in him and Keith tonight. Fine, his brother would just roll his eyes, close up for the two of them, and move on with his life. But Hunk and Lance are two of the biggest voyeurs Shiro has ever met in his life. They don’t need a pair of third-row center tickets to Shiro going for another kiss and hitting Keith’s forehead instead of his mouth.

Furrowing his brow, Shiro blinks at Keith’s hair and the floor behind him. Keith’s mouth was _right here_. Shiro’s tongue cleaves to the roof of his own mouth as he lips at Keith’s warm skin. What’s going on? Why isn’t Keith trying to—

Shiro’s breath hitches in his throat. The thought’s lost in sharp, stark white heat. Finally, Keith sinks his teeth into the tender spot that’s going to be a hickey when he’s finished with it. Right there. Right in the center of Shiro’s Adam’s apple. Where he’ll never stand a chance of hiding it from anybody. A shiver starts in the bottom of Shiro’s chest and makes him gasp again. Rough and hot and shaking him down to the bones — it screams so loud that Keith has to hear it. He _has to_.

No way he could miss a noise like that. No way that he _can’t_ tell what he’s doing to Shiro.

Except he’s undeterred, snaking one hand up behind Shiro’s neck as if nothing’s changed. Or is he waiting for Shiro to do a better job of asking? Except he scrapes and fangs at his fledgling work of art, like Shiro wanted. While Keith sucks on the skin with vampiric intensity, Shiro tilts his head as far back as he can. No more wall. The only things impeding him are his own back and the limits of his flexibility. He whines, pressing his neck harder against Keith’s teeth, knocking his hips against Keith’s hips, grabbing at Keith’s side and pulling him as close as he can, as close as their bodies and their clothes allow—

_Clothes_. God, no, these won’t do. Sliding his fingers under Keith’s sweatshirt leads Shiro to another layer of cotton. Right, the t-shirt. While Keith’s paused to catch his breath, Shiro paws at his front. Hits on more fabric but not a zipper. Trailing down Keith’s front, Shiro pushes his fingers into that softness. First, the material of Keith’s shirt. Then, the chub pooching out around his middle. The only hard spot he finds is bone right above Keith’s heart, and he gasps when Shiro’s fingertips rub him there.

Okay, fine then, no zipper here. Shiro can work with that. He tugs on the hem until Keith gives him a nod that it’s okay, then he puts both hands to work on easing it up. Keith wriggles, trying to help get himself out. Which he does, at least in that his cooperation lets Shiro toss aside that sweatshirt sooner.

Except his stomach’s nestled close enough to Shiro’s for him to feel each of Keith’s jerking movements. To feel Keith’s flesh bounce and tremble against his own, each time Keith shakes his hips. Shouldn’t be such a surprise, when Shiro’s felt Keith up recently. Still, Keith never used to have any jiggle, not even slightly. Last time they got this intimate, Keith’s body was firm and taut on Shiro’s, lean muscle and little else, compact and firm and scrappy, with barely any give to it at all. Everything about him had been sharp, as pointed as his Mom’s old blade.

But now, Keith huddles in on Shiro and his sides yield under Shiro’s fingers. He rubs up on Shiro and Shiro’s heart stutters at Keith’s plush tummy kneading against his abs. He grinds on Shiro like he knows what he wants and how to get it, demanding, hard, and eager. Thrusting quicker here to make the point about how much he’s burning for Shiro. Stroking slower there because Keith’s still a tease who snickers when he coaxes any kind of noise from Shiro’s chest. Every time he drags himself up and down on Shiro’s front, Keith bumps his pudge on Shiro, so soft and so inviting, all but begging Shiro to sink his fingertips in further, to come find out exactly how much more of Keith there is to hold. How much more caressing Shiro needs to give him. In a way, Keith’s bit of chub makes all of this feel so different.

In another way, though, it’s so familiar, this clinging, these motions they put each other through like the steps of a dance. Even after they’ve spent so much time apart, Keith’s restless in how he moves on Shiro. He never finds a rhythm, exactly, but measured, predictable tempo’s always managed to escape him. Shiro readies himself to buck at Keith again, lest Keith do all the work himself, but Keith charges after him. Their hips collide and Keith groans, but Shiro chokes his down. He chuckles instead — it’s so like them to fall in sync without meaning to — and brushes Keith’s loose bangs back off his face, trailing the backs of his nails along Keith’s forehead.

Perplexed or seeming like it, Keith blinks up at him. Wide-eyed, with a trembling mouth and so many unspoken questions that spill out across his expression. But Keith butts his face at Shiro’s hand so gently that Shiro barely feels it. Letting his eyelids droop halfway shut, he kisses Shiro’s knuckles and the back of his hand. He allows his eyes to slip shut as he nuzzles Shiro’s hand, keeps them closed as Shiro cups his whole palm around Keith’s face. Shiro’s heart leaps up into his throat and flails, from the sight of Keith like this. Unguarded, vulnerable, almost peaceful and trusting Shiro not to hurt him.

For a flash of a moment, Keith leans into Shiro’s touch so easily, seems like he might let himself rest a moment in that embrace. He decides against it, though, nosing at Shiro’s hand until he finds Shiro’s fingertips. He bunts at Shiro with the apple of his cheek, then blinks at his hand, eyes dulling ever-so-slightly. Ghosting his mouth over the callus on Shiro’s left ring-finger, Keith sighs in what sounds like fond exasperation. His tongue darts over his lips so quickly that Shiro almost misses it.

Before Shiro can guess what’s what, Keith’s kissing the pad that he needs to file down. Gingerly, lips sheathe Shiro’s finger. They tickle his skin but something glimmers in Keith’s eyes like gold surrounded by broken glass. Any laughter curls up in Shiro’s throat, creaks out of him only as a barely-there whimper.

That’s enough to make Keith smirk, but whatever he feels, he sucks Shiro’s finger with the delicate care of someone handling a long-lost da Vinci. He grazes his teeth along the callus as if trying not to topple a Faberge egg, and when Shiro gasps, Keith’s smirk melts into something with less edge. The next kiss falls to Shiro’s palm, and Keith burrows his cheek into it again.

“I love your hands,” he whispers, toying with the zipper on Shiro’s hoodie.

Maybe that shouldn’t explain everything so well, and yet, it does.

Leaning down to nudge Keith’s forehead with his own, Shiro can’t stop his lips from quivering. “I love your mouth.”

Gently, Keith curls his fingers around Shiro’s wrist. “Tell me what you want.”

There it is — one difference out of the many that have lingered here, simmering right below the surface of the past several moments. No matter how well they know each other, no matter how quickly they fell back into each other’s lives, some of their boundaries are new. Some lines have changed. And too often, Shiro hasn’t cared enough about his own consent.

Keith’s eyes glisten without misting over and he nuzzles Shiro’s palm. Screwing up his lips into a pout, Keith ghosts his thumb up and down Shiro’s wrist. He squints, watching Shiro as if he’s trying to interpret ancient hieroglyphics. Nodding, Shiro swallows thickly. He drops his free hand to Keith’s hip, and he should have the words for this. Head reeling or not, he should have a real answer. He should have _something_ more than his hands on Keith’s skin.

“I don’t want to assume too much and hurt you,” Keith cuts in before Shiro can get too lost in his own head, nudging his face at Shiro’s hand. “Or make you feel like you can’t say, ‘No.’ So, please? Tell me what you want?”

“I want to make you happy,” Shiro promises.

But as soon as he gets the words out, something cold twists around his insides. It clenches tight around his lungs and his stomach. It makes his heart stop dead. All the while, the chill screams at Shiro that what he’s said is not enough.

He squeezes Keith’s hip. “Sorry, I didn’t — that isn’t what you meant, I just…” Mouth trembling, he smiles at Keith. Probably unconvincingly, no matter how earnest it feels to Shiro. Rubbing at Keith’s side, Shiro tells him, “I want _you_. I want to be _yours_. I love when you’re playful, and I love when you take charge, and I love _you_ , all I want…”

The knife’s edge glint in Keith’s eyes sparks up a desire, and it spills out of Shiro’s mouth before he fully recognizes it: “I want you to fuck me.”

Keith wrinkles his nose. “ _Fuck_ you?” he parrots. “Not make _love_ to you? Or any other way?”

“I want…” Shiro draws in a deep breath. He sighs, and it resolves absolutely nothing. But a moment of thought is all he needs to feel safe in nodding. “I want you. I want to take _all_ of you. I…” He closes his eyes as his cheeks twinge pink. “I wanna _look at you_ while you’re inside me, but I’m not particular about the semantics of fucking versus making love or whatever else that we could call it, I just want you _so badly_ , Keith, as long as it’s you and me, I—”

He’s cut off by a gasp of protest. His lungs, it seems, do not appreciate the lack of air. The only consolations while he’s panting are Keith’s hands, caressing his wrist and squeezing his shoulder easily, not too carefully, but enough to say that it’s alright.

Also helps that Keith waits for Shiro to catch his breath and blush through telling him, “Please, Keith. I want you to top me.”

Smiling like nothing else in the universe matters, Keith kisses Shiro’s cheek. “As you wish,” he chuckles against Shiro’s skin. “You’re cute when you’re flustered. Just so you know.”

That’s nice, but Keith doesn’t let Shiro dwell on anything too long. Worming his fingers into Shiro’s belt-loops, he gives up a gentle kiss, sucks on Shiro’s lip almost apologetically. What Keith could even think to apologize for, Shiro could try to guess. Before he can tame his thoughts enough for that, Keith’s tugging on Shiro’s jeans and hauling him toward the bed. Jerking Shiro against his hips and stomach, Keith lets a breathy, needy noise slip out against Shiro’s mouth. _God_ , but that contact makes Shiro moan. That sound makes his chest feel too tight for the fire Keith’s putting in him.

His heartbeat quickens as Keith’s hands curl around his shoulders. The shattered glass glint behind his smirk sends pulsing echoes of it straight to Shiro’s crotch. Only one thing to be done with that, in Shiro’s mind. He has to grind on Keith again.

Except it doesn’t work. For once, writhing against Keith doesn’t make him buck back harder. While Shiro twists his hips and grinds on Keith’s, all Keith does is reach up to rub his fingers over the white forelock. He sighs contentedly in the face of Shiro whimpering about this hold-up, but that smile looks too easy. Too much like Keith has a game afoot, or at least some notion he doesn’t want to let Shiro know about just yet. After all, he might. He has Shiro exactly where Shiro wants to be and yearning for him more than Keith may realize, telling him it’s sexy when he takes charge. Why _wouldn’t_ Keith have ideas about how the rest of this should go?

When Shiro rocks his hips at Keith’s again, Keith lets up on playing with his hair. With a huff and a fight not to roll his eyes, Shiro butts his face toward Keith’s hand. He tries to catch the backs of Keith’s fingers with his cheek, like giving up any of this contact could kill him. Keith drops his hand to Shiro’s shoulder as if nothing’s even happening. He tightens his grip until Shiro can feel it so intensely, he might as well be naked. Finding a knot of tension earns Keith another low, longing whine, and his lips curl up like smoke. As he works his fingers against that spot, he smiles as if he’s never felt more pleased with himself.

Then, with as little warning as when he started, Keith lets up. He pushes Shiro back into the mattress. He drops onto it with a thud. The box-spring creaks beneath him. Even though he’s done nothing — even though he _knows_ he’s done nothing — that sound makes Shiro’s cheeks flush hot. He drops his eyes to the mattress, unable to stop the heat from seeping down his neck. Bracing himself on his palms, he inhales deep, pulls his own stomach in tighter, as if the tension from his shoulders shot down there, instead. As if the way Keith jerks his head means he might find something about Shiro’s body that he doesn’t appreciate.

All it means, Keith informs him with an impatient sigh, is that he wants Shiro to move back and give him some room. Once he has, Keith swoops in and settles between Shiro’s splayed legs. With his long legs and the way that Shiro’s half-reclined, Keith gains a temporary height advantage. Not by much, but by enough that he’s the one slouching when he nudges his forehead into Shiro’s and cups one hand around his jaw. The other drops to Shiro’s waist, finagles with his layered hems until it finally works underneath them and finds his skin. Keith gets a ghost of a smile, splaying his warm palm and firm fingers out on Shiro’s stomach, but he frowns when Shiro presses back into his hand. A quick pinch, and Keith shakes his head.

“Quit sucking in,” he says. “You’re so _tense_.”

“Sorry.” Shiro’s gaze drops again. His face goes so hot, it must be candy apple red. “I didn’t mean anything or—”

“It’s okay.” Keith taps a thumb at Shiro’s cheek until he looks up again. “I want to see you, Shiro. _All_ of you. But if you’re not up to it, then you don’t need—”

“No, I _want_ to.” Sighing, Shiro lets his abs relax. “Sorry, it’s… Harder habit to break than you’d think…?”

Keith trails his fingers down Shiro’s stomach until he hits Shiro’s jeans. “I love you,” he promises. “Let me know when you’re ready.”

Shiro does exactly as requested, reaching back to grab Keith’s ass.

Even without words making Shiro’s intentions plain, Keith takes his hint perfectly. Jumping to action, he nearly tears the zipper clean off Shiro’s hoodie. With that obstruction handled, Keith yanks Shiro’s sweatshirt off his shoulders, flings it to the floor. His hands move like they’re on a mission, jerking Shiro’s t-shirt up with force that goes straight to his dick, faster than anything else tonight has done. He swallows thickly, hips rocking toward Keith as a familiar chorus of _want_ and _please_ and _fuck_ flares up in his mind. All Shiro gets is a chuckle from Keith when his crotch knocks against Keith’s knee.

As if nothing’s happened, Keith drums his fingers on Shiro’s back. Letting his head loll back, Shiro groans. Rubbing at Keith’s leg gets him nothing, not even a huff of amusement. He wants so much more — more contact, more touching, more of Keith and more of Keith paying attention to his crotch, even if he wants to act like he isn’t — but Shiro’s movements aren’t in vain. A growl slithers out of Keith’s throat as he presses back at Shiro’s crotch. While Shiro whimpers for him, he skims his hands down Shiro’s shoulders, skirting around the edge of the gnarled scar on his right. That greedy, pointed gleam in Keith’s eyes makes tight coils of heat writhe through the pit of Shiro’s stomach, squirming so hard, it’s a miracle that Shiro can feel anything else.

Keith lingers on Shiro’s chest, though. Concern furrows his brow as he pauses, edging back from Shiro’s groin enough to make Shiro feel that absence. Any other time, Keith could be trying to cop a squeeze of Shiro’s muscles, trying to feel for himself that Shiro has more to his chest than the bare minimum, now. But Keith stops dead without kneading his fingertips at anything. When he remembers how to move, he trails one finger down from Shiro’s collarbone, dragging it along the skin so slowly, so carefully that he’s either nervous or getting up to something, and Shiro might not mind either possibility, as long as he’s not the only one of them who’s happy when they’re done tonight. As long as Keith gets what he wants, too…

Shiro flinches as Keith presses on one of his old cigarette burns. For all they’ve healed and faded in the past few years, they still stand out, silvery-white blotches on the pale tawny skin of Shiro’s chest. The tattoo he got done over them makes something new, but does nothing to conceal them. Thin black lines connect the burns like dots in a drawing of a constellation. Around that map is the outline of a scorpion. Whether or not Maurice meant to create a pattern, he scarred his _sweet boy_ with enough cigarettes and the marks almost perfectly matched up with Scorpius. Since the “stars” in this picture obviously aren’t tattoos or even pretending to be, their lopsidedness matters less.

As Keith traces his fingertip around the smudge, Shiro tries to keep his breathing measured, even. He succeeds, or he feels like he’s got it down. The only snag: Keith notices. He hesitates, pulling his fingers back from Shiro’s chest. Wide-eyed, he blinks at Shiro, silently asking whether or not this is okay. Right, of course — Keith knows these blemishes and he knows where they came from. According to Keith’s testimony, he remembers when these improvised brands were fresh and angry red, and how Shiro lied about having wanted the first one. How he lied to Keith about telling Maurice it was alright to use him as a human ashtray, then tried to hide the marks that followed in case Keith put it together that Maurice hadn’t even asked.

But being aware that the scars on Shiro’s chest exist isn’t the same as Keith seeing them to him for the first time in nearly five years. Any ideas of how they used to look isn’t the same thing as touching them, up close and personal like this. In the same way, Shiro knowing that Keith would likely see these old markings is different from dealing with their full significance, now that he has.

Shiro’s tongue flicks out over his lips, and he shuts his eyes so he can think without looking at Keith’s open, concerned expression. It would be so easy, so painfully simple, for him to say yes without thinking about things more fully. Every inch of Shiro’s exposed skin tingles, aching to get closer to Keith again, to touch him and be touched all over. Keith drops his hand to Shiro’s waist and lets it hover there, a presence that Shiro feels despite how it won’t make proper contact. He swallows thickly, as a white-hot yearning spills out in his chest, as it claws up his spine and digs into his brain, hissing that he doesn’t need to consider anything, that he _wants_ Keith, wants to _be with_ Keith, and wouldn’t everything be _so much better_ if Shiro had Keith feeling him up instead of waiting for him, if he had Keith inside him _right this second_ —

Those solutions are too easy to be trusted, though. Because Shiro _promised_ not to put being with Keith above his own well-being. _Not_ giving this matter its due consideration could kill the mood even more than pausing for a moment.

So, he takes his deep breaths, holding each for a count of five before he lets it go. He doesn’t let himself press his side into Keith’s palm, no matter how much he _wants_ that. He goes over his mindfulness questions that seem most relevant: Shiro is not in pain; he only remembers how it feels. The only smells around him come from Keith, none of them is the smell of searing flesh, and none of them even especially reminds him of Chicago. Nobody is burning Shiro or hurting him; he’s allowing someone he loves to see his scars.

Shiro isn’t certain what he expects when he confirms that Keith can touch him like this. Not Keith hesitating like he still doesn’t entirely understand, that’s for sure. But it’s fair enough, that uncertainty. After all this time, how _could_ Keith be certain that Shiro really means that it’s okay to touch his scars? Holding back a sigh, Shiro lays a hand on top of Keith’s and waits for him to say that he’s fine with that contact.

With that permission, Shiro squeezes Keith’s hand. Gently, he leads Keith up his side. This might not work, guiding Keith through touching every bare inch of his torso. Keith might not get what Shiro wants him to from feeling this body that Shiro’s fought so hard to reclaim from his own mind and self-destructive impulses. Even with the evidence that Shiro’s doing better right under his hand, with everything he can feel, Keith might still have reservations. But Shiro hasn’t done all that work, much less the work that Keith _can’t_ squeeze or even see that easily, just to run from what he wants, now that he has it.

He hasn’t clawed his way back from his lowest points to flinch away from being with a guy he’s loved so much, for so long. Shiro has to prove to Keith how much he wants this, how it’s okay for Keith to touch him, even in the most fragile-seeming spots. Every so often, Shiro pauses in some new place and holds Keith’s warm palm and firm fingers to his skin. Stopping just below his breast, he blinks up at a cautiously quirked eyebrow. Keith wriggles his hand, and Shiro nods, places his own palm back on the mattress.

Free to explore as he likes, Keith rubs at Shiro’s biceps as if he can’t believe that there’s more to them now than bone and muscle. He traces over the old scar on Shiro’s stomach, from the stabbing he was impossibly lucky to survive. He kneads and pinches at Shiro’s sides and chest, humming pensively when he can’t find _that_ much softness but can’t feel much of Shiro’s rib cage either. Frowning curiously, he splays both hands out on Shiro’s abs. With a mind to help, Shiro leans a bit further back, so Keith can have a better angle, more room to feel more skin. Keith massages so intently that, when his knee bumps into Shiro’s crotch, Keith doesn’t seem to hear him groan.

Letting out a quiet, jittery noise, Keith’s face scrunches up in a way that Shiro can’t interpret. Soft and wide-eyed, with his lips quirking but not entirely smiling. His whole face trembles and his eyes go dewy without completely misting over. Whatever he’s feeling — whether it’s happy, overwhelmed, or something else — and whatever he wants Shiro to understand, Keith looks like his heart could burst open. Keith pulls his hands back without losing that expression. Shiro shivers from the cold spots this leaves around his middle and whines — but before too long, Keith’s fingers snake through Shiro’s hair, tugging almost as if he’s asking for permission. Keith gets a nod from Shiro, then gets to work, yanking his ponytail out of its elastic.

As Shiro’s hair flops onto the back of his neck, Keith slinks into his lap and down his front. Nuzzling at Shiro’s chest, he drapes one arm up on Shiro’s shoulder. It could be a soft moment, a breather. But Shiro gasps as teeth graze over the skin, scraping one of his cigarette burns. He sighs as Keith kisses him there, biting and sucking and working him over with the full and obvious intent to leave behind a bruise. As Shiro lets his eyes slip shut, something fiery hot and sticky ebbs through his chest and the pit of his stomach. Once he’s satisfied, Keith moves on to another scar. He kisses three places on Shiro’s collarbone next, barely taking any time to rest between them.

Keith only pauses when he brushes Shiro’s fringe back off his face, coaxes him into leaning his head back. He nips at the mark that he already left on Shiro’s Adam’s apple, chuckles as he makes Shiro let out a small, tremulous whine. But before too long, his mouth finds its way back to Shiro’s skin. Sucking hard at Shiro’s jugular, Keith gets Shiro’s breath to hitch in his throat. It might be a miracle that Keith doesn’t break the skin, he’s so intent in how he goes at Shiro’s neck. Pinching at his side only makes Keith kiss even harder.

When he finally comes back up for proper air, Keith smiles like he dares Shiro to call him out on what he just did. There’s no way that Shiro will be able to hide all these hickeys, tomorrow. The ones on his chest, sure, but definitely not the ones Keith left on his neck.

_You **said** you wanted to be **mine**_ , Keith’s grin says clearly.

Leaning up to kiss the corner of Keith’s mouth, Shiro hums contentedly. _Keith’s_ — if Shiro can give himself to any guy like that, it has to be Keith. Because Keith would let Shiro be his without losing anything, would let Shiro stay himself and wouldn’t have him any other way. A wobbling sigh trips out of Shiro’s mouth as Keith’s fingers drag through his hair again. _Want_ is the strongest of his feelings, coursing through Shiro like an electric shock as he tugs Keith flush against him, as he squishes Keith’s pudge against his abs.

Once the initial hit subsides, that feeling comes back in waves, warm and rough as they crash into Shiro, as he rubs against Keith and whines over the way Keith twists his fingers through Shiro’s fringe. _Wanting_ , everything feeds into this feeling that just falls short of disguising itself as _need_.

No, Shiro _wants_ to feel Keith’s hands pulling on his hair and Keith’s body up tight against his like this. He _wants_ to feel Keith’s skin — Shiro squeezes at the bit of give around Keith’s hip, then pushes at the t-shirt’s hem. He _wants_ Keith wriggling against him like this as he peels off the shirt, _wants_ to throw it aside so he’s free to brush his palms up Keith’s fuller waistline and the slight curve he has to his middle. So different, so unlike what Shiro’s ever dared to let himself expect Keith’s body might be like after so long, and so exactly what Shiro _wants_ to sink his fingers into as he leans up into another kiss.

Groaning so quietly that Shiro almost doesn’t hear it, Keith nudges at his shoulder. Shiro questions nothing, only follows where Keith leads. Eases himself onto his back, the way he guesses that Keith wants him positioned. Tries to spread his legs and put more space between his thighs, in case Keith needs it, because _Shiro_ wants Keith as close as physics will let them get. Eyebrow arched in a way that Shiro can’t interpret, at the moment, Keith drags his knuckles up Shiro’s thigh. All the way up from his knee, following his inseam, and never once letting up the pressure that he puts on Shiro’s muscle. Not too hard, Keith knows better. Nowhere near enough to hurt. Yet, it’s strong enough that Shiro sighs, washed over by warm relief as Keith releases tension he didn’t realize that he’d let build up.

A moan scratches at the back of Shiro’s throat, but refuses to come up, as Keith nudges the back of his hand at Shiro’s crotch, with just enough weight that Shiro feels it. His hips chase after that, pressing and rubbing him against Keith’s bony wrist and still, Shiro chokes up on that building groan. As Keith gropes inelegantly at his fly, the noise fills up Shiro’s throat but refuses to work itself free, hot and thick and sticky, protesting _something_ about the current state of things between them. Something that doesn’t want to let Shiro get a fix on it. When his mind drifts off toward that question, it goes completely blank. Leaves him with only the mounting pressure in his jeans and the bone-deep, writhing _GodKeithfuckwant_ that makes Shiro rock harder into Keith’s grip.

Squirming might not help, but with Keith’s hands inviting themselves to every inch of his skin, the rush of heat twists through Shiro’s insides more and more. He can’t settle down as Keith ghosts his knuckles down his stomach, cops a two-handed feel of his abs, trails his fingertips along his hipbone and his jeans as though they have all the time in the world. As though Shiro isn’t already flushed and quivering beneath his hands. As though it’s not enough for him to tease his fingers under Shiro’s waistband, idly scratch at a hidden strip of skin, and dart back out without so much as accidentally bumping Shiro’s dick.

Without a word, Keith pulls away and turns his back on Shiro. Propping himself up on his elbows, Shiro furrows his brow at the back of Keith’s head, at the frantic way he jostles his shoulders. What in the world? What’s going on? Is Keith okay?

But Shiro’s concern and protest slip back down his throat before he can let out a sound. A different, strangled sound replaces them as, with his jeans removed and a full erection straining visibly through his shorts, Keith swoops in to straddle Shiro’s hips. Not the moan that won’t come out, but something that makes Keith smirk. In turn, that makes Shiro buck up at him, rolling against him, getting Keith to grunt as he pushes Shiro back into the mattress.

Splaying one hand out on Shiro’s navel, Keith drags his ass over Shiro’s crotch and hips. Long, slow motions knead his warm, plush flesh against Shiro until he feels like he could so easily get lost in how Keith moves on him. Squeezing Keith’s thighs — rubbing his palms against Keith, digging for the muscle Keith still has under his new, soft padding — feeling Keith up as if he’s the most important person in the universe right now because he is — it all keeps Shiro grounded in this moment, in himself. Keith’s so beautiful, grinding down against Shiro when he rocks up into him, with something glinting behind his eyes that Shiro _wants so badly_ to see brought up to the surface.

Doesn’t hurt that, with an affectionate snort, Keith tightens his legs around Shiro, squishes that bit of pudge on Shiro’s hips and sides. This makes the heat pooled in the pit of Shiro’s stomach wrench like it means to jerk his chain. Like it wants him to _know_ that it remains unsatisfied. Finally, one more shift of Keith’s ass against his groin shakes loose the moan that Shiro’s throat has kept buttoned up for what feels like _ages_. His whole chest shudders as he lets that sound come out of him, and as Shiro’s cock gets hard, his abs pull tighter than they have so far tonight.

Grinding on Shiro’s bulge, Keith lights up his face with that gorgeous, knife’s edge smirk again.

“Almost thought I was doing something _wrong_ ,” he mutters, wriggling back to the mattress and unzipping Shiro’s jeans so slowly that it burns, nudging against his cock too many times for him to claim that it’s anything but perfectly intentional.

Shiro shakes his head _“no.”_ Because Keith’s done nothing wrong tonight, he hasn’t, and it’s not his fault that, anymore, Shiro needs more foreplay than he used to. As if it helps make his point, he lifts his lower back off the mattress, so Keith can have an easier time with his jeans. Once they’re down Shiro’s ass, he pulls his legs back as Keith’s hands do their work. The denim hits the floor and Shiro props himself on his elbows, ready to help get rid of his underwear.

Except Keith’s hesitating again. Fixating on something other than what Shiro expected. Leaning toward one of Shiro’s thighs and coaxing the other back onto the bed. He brushes his fingertips over Shiro’s fine layer of hair and the black rose tattoo. He stops himself from kneading at the muscle when Shiro gives him a moan. The dewy-eyed look on his face makes guilt claw as the inside of Shiro’s throat, but he doesn’t figure out why until Keith touches another set of scars. Thin and faded and methodically straight, they stand out against the tawny skin of Shiro’s legs, as do the cuts he made higher up, now hidden by his boxer-briefs. Even so, their location and some lightings almost let Shiro forget he has these scars.

Keith’s never seen them, though; Shiro didn’t give himself these scars until after they got separated. He didn’t warn Keith about them, either. Without trying to hide or move his leg away from Keith’s hand, Shiro sits up. Brushing Keith’s hair off of his face, Shiro comes up blank on anything that he can say for himself, anything that might help. With a soft, damp noise, Keith kisses Shiro’s palm and nestles his cheek there. He spreads his fingers over Shiro’s scars as if he’s trying to protect Shiro or let him know that he isn’t mad. He closes his eyes and wrinkles his nose like there’s something he feels like he _needs_ to say. And Shiro shouldn’t talk over Keith, not when it’s probably important, but he _needs_ to ease Keith’s mind, somehow—

“I’m okay,” he says, tucking soft black hair behind Keith’s ear. “Are _you_?”

Keith takes a deep breath and thinks that over. When he nods, he’s almost back to that playful smirking. “Where’s your lube?”

Maybe he could give Keith directions instead of clambering back to the bedside table where his alarm clock sits. Maybe that’s what a _normal_ guy would do, one who doesn’t come complete with self-inflicted scars and cigarette burns from his ex-abuser and a truckload of messy, tangled issues that existed before Shiro even met Keith. But Keith doesn’t give that keen, earnest grin — the one that lights up his entire face, brighter than neon lights and fireworks — to any _normal_ guy who he could have instead. Balling a hand up in the sheets, Keith turns that grin of his on Shiro, on the condom and the bottle of lube that he drops between Keith’s knees. An expectant quirk of his eyebrow is all the cue that Shiro needs to tear off his shorts.

As soon as Shiro’s settled, he gasps. Keith grabs at his cock like Shiro’s been grabbing at his body, fondly and firmly, curiously, too impatient for any unnecessary waiting. A flick of the wrist. A twist along his shaft. Keith drags his thumb up from the base and another groan shocks through Shiro’s body, clawing up from the pit of his stomach, making every inch of his arms and legs and torso shiver before shambling out of his mouth.

Catching his breath, with his arms slack, Shiro can put up no resistance as Keith eases him back down to the mattress. Not that he _would_ , though. His breath briefly hitches in his throat, then comes unstuck when Keith noses at his knee. He rubs one hand down the thigh with the Maleficent tattoo and wraps the other back around Shiro’s cock, all tender, slow, and gentle, caressing Shiro like nothing else in the universe matters as much to Keith as this moment, here in this room. His open, vulnerable smile makes Shiro’s heart flutter almost as much as Keith jerking up his shaft makes Shiro’s face and neck and chest flush hot with _wanting_.

Resting his cheek on Shiro’s thigh, refusing to take his eyes off of Shiro, Keith fumbles for the supplies they need. He only glances down when the condom’s wrapper won’t play nicely with him, which gives Shiro enough time to get up on his elbows, to better look at Keith. Dragging his eyes up and down over Keith’s frame, Shiro bites his lip. Stripped nude, his body’s even more inviting. Above them, one of the bulbs in Shiro’s lamp flickers, then goes out, leaving the other two intact. Unruffled, Keith rolls the condom down his cock. As he uncaps the lube, the shadows fall on his subtle curves, the places where he’s filled out just enough for Shiro to notice, now that he has a proper eyeful of Keith and his body.

God, but Shiro wants so badly to touch him, to get his hands all over Keith and never let him go again. He’s shifting his own weight onto one elbow when a slicked-up finger nudges against his hole. A gasp comes up without Shiro giving it permission. His hips rock toward Keith nervously, as if some part of Shiro still can’t let go enough to go after what he’s already said he wants. Yeah, like that’s going to get Keith any deeper into him — which, of course, it really doesn’t. Tilting his head with a sideways, impatient smirk, he waits for Shiro to give him a jerking nod and a half-moaned, half-whimpered, _“Please, Keith. Please?”_

Keith has to shake the bottle to get more lube out on his fingers. If that bothers him, he doesn’t let it show, but focuses on working Shiro open for him. On edging his fingers into Shiro without getting too fast about it or lagging too much, finding not a rhythm exactly but a way of kneading inside Shiro that earns the best moans — throaty and coming from somewhere deep inside of Shiro, with enough eager whining to make Keith grin like he’s _ever so pleased_ with himself — and eases his legs open in the exact way Keith wants. On going in far enough and making sure that Shiro stays relaxed and his breaths still come to him easily.

Precome starts leaking from the care that Keith’s taking with this process. From the sensations, too, not least when Keith finds that sweet spot and rubs at it _exactly right_. But more than anything else, it’s the way he’s so attentive, shifting in new ways when Shiro doesn’t moan quite as much as he could, watching Shiro’s face for any signs that something isn’t right even with all the difficulty Keith can have in interpreting other people’s expressions, pumping his own cock to keep himself hard instead of objecting to going slowly…

Shiro inhales sharply as Keith hits him where he’s most sensitive again, right on top of the thought that he’s more than safe here, with Keith. Safe, too, yes, and that’s important, but being _Keith’s_ means that Shiro’s _special_ to him. No matter how Shiro already knew that, no matter how much Keith’s already done to make him understand this simple concept — Keith’s doing exactly what Shiro wants right now, making him throw his head back and arch his back in all the right ways, and _God, Shiro’s so ready, God, please, he wants Keith inside of him right now_ —

Another jostle of the bottle shakes Shiro back into the moment. Another whine comes up for Keith as he slides his fingers out and wipes them off on Shiro’s sheets. Another squirt, and as he watches Keith coat his dick in lube, Shiro can barely make out what Keith’s saying about him having _just enough left for tonight_. Whatever it is, all thoughts about it disappear from Shiro’s mind as soon as, grunting softly and curling one arm around the thigh of Shiro’s that he still has rucked up, Keith pushes into him.

Keith’s first several thrusts are slow, not hesitant but exploratory. Each one goes deeper than the one before it, but none goes in as far as he could manage, if he wanted. No, Keith takes his time feeling Shiro out. Brow furrowed in curiosity and concern, he splays his clean hand out on Shiro’s middle as if there’s some secret hidden in them that might tell Keith more than the breathy moans he coaxes out of Shiro or the ways he makes Shiro rock back against each thrust. Or maybe it’s meant to be protective, a silent affirmation that he’s here now, and he wants Shiro too, and _this, right here, right now, all of this with Keith is real_. Maybe Keith needs to remind _himself_ that Shiro won’t break so easily, that he’s survived and started mending and he _wants Keith to fuck him_.

Whatever Keith’s looking for, he takes a steadying breath, grips onto the thigh he’s embracing, and buries himself balls-deep in Shiro. Drives into him slowly, inching his way along and watching Shiro’s face as he tries not to buck his hips too eagerly. Shiro wants to give Keith another moan, the way he likes. It comes out as a whimper, though, and as he rubs his cheek at Shiro’s leg, Keith’s lips curl up into a small, fond smile. Pulling back, just as slowly, he whispers a promise that he’s here and that Shiro feels _so good_ , and Keith wants him _so much_ , for as long as Shiro wants him too, as many times as Shiro wants him, whatever he has to do for that.

Which isn’t anything new to hear, from either of them. But as Keith kisses Shiro’s knee, as he pushes back into Shiro _ever so slightly_ before he’s even properly pulled back for another thrust, those words from Keith kindle an impulse in the pit of Shiro’s stomach.

Pulling out, Keith chuckles and teases his cockhead against Shiro’s hole, nudging at Shiro but not entering him or making good on any implicit offers. _God_ , it’d be so easy — so _very_ easy — to lie here and move his hips _just so_ and catch Keith’s cock without fully taking it, not until he gives it back. Dimly, it occurs to Shiro that Keith might be angling for that.

Instead, he gets a hand on his shoulder and Shiro sitting up to look him in the eye. This, in turn, earns Shiro a quizzically scrunched up face — but Keith still nods for him, and he lets Shiro ease him back into the headboard. Bracing himself, Keith curls his once-slicked hand up in Shiro’s sheets. Wide-eyed and wrinkling his nose, he looks like he can tell what’s coming — or at the very least, like he can guess what sort of ideas Shiro might have. If the glimmer in his eyes is anything to go by, Keith might be hoping that he’s right.

Yet, there’s a tight edge to everything, as if Keith can’t let himself believe that his notions might in any way reflect reality.

Whatever Keith’s thinking, Shiro climbs into his lap. While Keith stares up at him in wonder and awe and _love_ , Shiro straddles his hips, tries to spread his legs _just so_. Keith’s hands hold Shiro’s sides to help him balance, at first. That doesn’t last a moment before he slips them down Shiro’s back and gropes, two-handed, at his ass instead. Breath hitching in his throat, Keith shifts his hip and rocks up to meet Shiro as he lowers himself onto Keith’s cock.

They groan together at this new position, at the feeling of each other, but while Shiro forces his head to stay level and keeps looking at Keith, Keith lets his eyes slip shut and lolls his head back. It doesn’t knock into the headboard so much as rests against it. Still, as Shiro tightens his thighs on Keith’s hips and eases himself up, he worms a hand behind Keith’s head. Nothing feels damaged. No tender spots make Keith’s face spasm in pain. The only sound he makes at all is a barely-there grunt when Shiro comes down on his cock again, and Keith bucks his hips in a firm, wanting thrust.

Since one hand’s already up here, Shiro twines the other one’s fingers up along the other side of Keith’s head, too. Moaning while Keith drives up into him, Shiro tugs at Keith’s hair. He whines, first, then whimpers as Shiro leans down to nudge their foreheads together. A simple, half-mewled request gets Keith’s clean hand back around Shiro’s cock. Shiro pulls on his hair again, not meaning to do it, but reflexively, from the slow, unyielding way Keith jerks on him. God, Shiro wanted to wait for eye contact — wanted Keith to look at him while hearing this, as if that might make him believe it more — but he’s _so close_ and Keith _needs_ to hear him say—

“I love you,” Shiro whispers against Keith’s ear. “Keith, please. I never _stopped_. And I want _you_ —”

He cuts himself off with a gasping, strangled, whining sound as Keith drives into him so ardently, Shiro could swear he feels fire coming off of him.

But as that subsides, he nuzzles at Keith’s cheek. “All I want from you is _you_.”

Whether it’s the words, or Shiro’s breath against his skin, or the way that Shiro’s riding him, Keith groans as he throws himself into a deep, ravenous kiss. He pumps Shiro’s cock. Adds in another thrust and then another and then a third. Ostensibly with a renewed sense of purpose, he rocks his hips up as Shiro lowers himself again, going harder at it than he has so far, and hitting that sweet spot in _just the exact right way_ to make Shiro’s breath hitch, to make him come undone.

He flushes as knots of heat and tension spill out through him, as everything pent up inside of him releases. He blushes when his orgasm subsides and, glancing down, he sees the mess of come that he’s left on Keith’s hand, on both of their stomachs, and even a bit on Keith’s chest.

If Keith minds, then he doesn’t show it. He follows when Shiro flops back onto the mattress. He finishes himself off with a few quick, hard thrusts, rubbing his cock along the inside of Shiro’s thigh. Keith’s own orgasm has a more guttural quality to it, as if the sound has to fight its way up and out of him. But when he drops onto his side next to Shiro, Keith’s soft and almost shy about pressing a kiss into his bicep. He takes several deep breaths that sound like he’s getting ready to say something, only to huff and bury his face in Shiro’s arm without a word.

Finally, just before Shiro can suggest showering and changing his sheets, Keith drapes an arm across his chest and, with his clean hand, squeezes at Shiro’s shoulder. Mouthing gingerly at Shiro’s skin, he promises, “I love you too, Kashi. _All_ of you.”

*** * ***

There isn’t enough space in Shiro’s shower to comfortably accommodate both of them at once. If there were, Keith would insist on cleaning up together. Under most circumstances, he prefers his privacy, but right now, tonight? One of the absolute last things he wants in life is any space between him and Shiro.

He settles with tossing on Shiro’s hoodie while sitting in the freshened up bed and waiting. It’s not as warm as it would’ve been, had Keith stolen it off Shiro’s shoulders and not his bedroom floor, but it’s warm enough, and cozy, and like the _“Frankie Says Relax”_ t-shirt before it, the hoodie smells like Shiro. That’s really its major selling point, for all Keith doesn’t plan to bring that up. He only takes the hoodie off when Shiro gets back. At that, Keith only gives it up because Shiro’s body heat and comforter are more than warm enough.

Come morning, Keith only rouses for Shiro’s alarm clock because Shiro has to reach over him to switch it off. Feeling so warm and loosened up and comfortable as he does, Keith could easily go back to sleep. Instead, he gets Shiro palming at his stomach and shifting against his back. Vaguely, Keith wonders if this is going to lead to lazy, easy morning sex. He wouldn’t mind that, if it did. But all that comes is Shiro gently squeezing at his pudge and kissing Keith between his shoulder-blades.

“Red looks good on you,” Shiro says, nosing at the tattoo of Keith’s lioness. “Whoever did the job for you? They got her perfectly.”

“He only did okay because he had your design to work with. A lot of the designs he did on his own looked like shit.”

Yawning, Keith rolls over without shaking Shiro’s arm off of him. It gets the sunlight out of his eyes and anyway, if they’re gonna talk before either of them’s had his coffee, Keith wants to be able to look at Shiro. Not to mention the fringe benefits — namely, that facing Shiro means Keith can comb his fingers through Shiro’s white fringe, roll Shiro’s hair around between his fingers, and all up, more easily take in this texture that Keith loves so well.

That, in turn, makes Shiro caress Keith’s hip and smile almost too easily to be real. The way his eyes glisten is subtle, but there’s nothing hidden or concealed about the expression itself. Soft and open, he looks like his heart’s about to burst and like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be. As he tucks some of Keith’s hair behind his ears, Shiro’s face shifts further, slipping into the smile that he reserves especially for Keith.

Which is nice, yes. It makes Keith’s cheeks twinge pink and makes him get dewy-eyed right back. But Shiro’s making this face without any apparent strain on himself or fear of judgment or reservations, and there are so many things that this could mean. Not all of them are good, despite how much Keith would like for this to mean something positive—

Before he can get lost in doubt, though, Keith shakes his head to cut that thought off. Before Shiro can ask if he’s okay, Keith nudges him down and kisses his slightly chapped, unfairly beautiful lips. Without caffeine, he can’t make it as good a kiss as he’s capable of, but Keith doesn’t let himself pull back from Shiro’s sticky, grungy morning-breath. As Shiro chuckles against his mouth, Keith tilts his head so he’ll feel _more_ of Shiro’s stubble graze against his face. Twining his fingers through Shiro’s bangs, Keith tries not to tug too hard. He doesn’t want to pull it or cause Shiro any pain right now, not even in a way that _hurts so good_. He just wants to keep touching Shiro’s hair and make sure that Shiro knows he’s here, and he wants him, and he meant everything he said last night.

They pull back from each other when they need to catch their breaths, but only by enough that Keith doesn’t see double while he’s looking at Shiro’s face. After all the time he’s spent failing to understand that Shiro _means_ this smile genuinely, Keith doesn’t want to waste any of the time that he has with this expression turned on him. As he brushes his thumb down Shiro’s bangs, Keith wants to say something. Even if Shiro knows that Keith can have trouble with spoken words, Keith _wants_ to sum up how he feels — he wants to tell Shiro about the warmth he puts in Keith’s chest and how nestling up against his chest is the closest that Keith can remember feeling to being at home — all in a way that’s beautiful and poignant and _right_. He wants to come up with the best of all possible words.

But before Keith can spit out anything, Shiro says his name gently, almost hesitantly, with an upward inflection that tacitly asks for Keith to please look at him. Brushing Keith’s bangs off his forehead, Shiro smiles and tells him, “If this isn’t nice? I don’t know what is.”

As he buries his face in Shiro’s neck, Keith blanks on all his words except for seven: “I love you, Kashi,” he whispers against the hickey he left over Shiro’s jugular last night. “I love you so fucking much.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, some things that, strictly speaking, I really don’t recommend: trying to write The Smut Chapter in google-docs on your phone during holiday festivities with nosy, conservative extended family members. Trying to write The Smut Chapter in google-docs on your phone while running everybody else’s holiday errands and waiting in long-ass lines. Printing out sections of The Smut Chapter to try and proofread it during Christmas dinner while one of your more liberal aunts happens to be leaning by the printer and casually peering at pages as they come out, and then she gets curious about the backstory regarding Shiro’s cigarette burns and just…… Really, working on The Smut Chapter over Christmas dinner just may not have been one of my better ideas in general.
> 
> If bottom!Shiro isn’t your thing, then I hope it helps that they’re going to switch it up more in the next part of the story (i.e., the next main-story fic in this series, not the next chapter after this one). This will mostly be a function of them having more sex and me personally headcanoning both of them as versatile, for all I decided I wanted this specific chapter to have bottom!Shiro.
> 
> Anyway. Happy holidays, if you celebrate any, and Merry Tuesday, if you don’t. See you next time ~~which will hopefully be sooner, but next time will also be Hunk and Lance because I decided that I didn’t want to make that conversation a side-story~~. ♡


	21. And now, another word from Leandro “Lance” Esparza

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “And then Lance just needs to be Extra as Fuck, because of course he does.” — a summary of this chapter that I made in jest, but it isn’t entirely inaccurate, either.

If Lance Esparza had a dollar for every fantasy of his that’s ever started with Hunk growling at him and dragging him outside by the elbow, he’d have enough cash to produce an entire HBO miniseries about them, starring Hunk as himself because he’s perfect and someone hotter than Lance as Hunk’s love interest because what’s the point of a fantasy if Lance can’t make himself better-looking than he is in real life. At that, with enough help from Pidge on the budget, Lance could probably work in most of his other, Hunk-related dreams that _haven’t_ taken place in grungy alleyways between bars and local Olkari restaurants, too. Not all of them, but enough of them to actualize Lance’s vision in a way he could be proud of.

Unfortunately, none of Lance’s fantasies about this moment have involved Hunk taking several steps back from him as soon as they’re outside, folding his arms over his chest, and glowering at Lance like he has ten million questions and can’t decide on one to start with.

Also, whenever one of his reveries _doesn’t_ immediately lead to Lance getting pushed against a wall while Hunk kisses the life out of him, he distinctly does not hunch in around himself for warmth. He doesn’t fumble like an idiot when Hunk throws his jacket at him or start putting it on inside out, noticing absolutely nothing until he can’t find the zipped-up pocket where he stashed his wallet. Fantasy-Lance never gets squinted at when he tries to shoot Hunk a hopeful smile and he doesn’t hug himself tighter, hoping that it might stop him from feeling three inches tall. In his own head and all the situations he mentally acts out in the shower, at work, on the bus, and in so many other places, Lance is suave and cool and he always has the _exact right thing_ on the tip of his tongue, just waiting for him to say it.

Regardless of how little Hunk knows about these fancy daydreams, he glares at Lance as if he’s expecting his buddy to run his mouth off and say something for himself, too. He taps his foot and arches an expectant eyebrow. When Lance can’t find the right words to calm Hunk down — or _any_ words, for that matter — Hunk purses his lips. He leans toward Lance ever-so-slightly, then drags him a few meters down, well away from the door. Makes sense enough, Lance guesses. They can’t really have _privacy_ out here, but the further from the door, the closer they get to it.

But moving them down still gets Hunk nothing. Certainly no answers or explanations, which are probably what he’s after. Then again, maybe he’s testing Lance, to see if Lance really meant what he just sang about onstage. While Lance is staring at his mouth, debating himself in circles about whether or not this is secretly meant to be an invitation, Hunk groans and shuffles further back from him.

“Come _on_ , dude,” he huffs. “What the Hell was _that_?”

“Uh, _karaoke_?” comes out of Lance’s mouth before he can think about what he’s saying or if he should stop himself.

The way Hunk narrows his eyes screams that this was not the point, or the answer that Hunk wanted. Worse, he knows that Lance knows this. There’s no reason for Lance to think he’s being cute right now. No excuse for him to hide in this massively unhelpful attempt at giving Hunk a snarky response. No wiggle room for anything, because Hunk doesn’t want to deal with any of Lance’s usual antics, at the moment.

Which, in all likelihood, _really_ means that Hunk doesn’t want to deal with Lance himself. After all, who _is_ Lance without his antics? At the absolute least, he needs to have _some_ of them at his disposal.

Maybe Hunk’s demeanor doesn’t mean that everything is broken. As he slouches further, Lance _needs_ to hang on to that possibility. Clearly, he’s ticked Hunk off again, like he has so many times over since they first met each other. Whatever he didn’t properly think about tonight, Lance might’ve roused more of his best friend’s outrage than before and he might’ve shot dead any chance that Hunk could ever love him back, in the way that Lance loves him — but maybe he hasn’t completely ruined everything.

Granted, that’s probably contingent on Lance finding an answer that doesn’t upset Hunk further. Unfortunately, all he gets from whining at Hunk — _“I don’t know, okay, man? What do you **want** me to say?” _ — is Hunk’s nostrils flaring and an outraged, halfway-growling noise. Coughing itself up from the back of his throat, it makes Lance flinch. Hunk’s not supposed to make that kind of sound when he’s not behind the wheel of the van. When circumstances shake out and drag it out of him anyway, then they _shouldn’t_ be the fault of his so-called best friend.

“If I tell you to just _tell me the truth,_ ” he drawls, “is that gonna make _any_ kind of difference? Or are you gonna jerk me around?”

Swallowing thickly, Lance clenches his teeth together. He curls his tongue against the backs of them and _God-quiznakking-dammit_ , but he itches to say _so many things_ that seriously wouldn’t help this situation that he’s dragged them into.

Maybe he _should_ get those thoughts out into the open, but on the other hand? They’ve got fuck-all nothing to do with Hunk’s real question and _everything_ to do with the way he’s talking to Lance. Anger, that part’s fine. Lance hates it — rather, he hates being the _reason_ why Hunk is feeling angry — but it’s the quiet condescension that makes Lance want to punch the brick wall behind him. Hunk’s talking like Lance is stupid, even more so than Hunk already knew.

He gives Lance an impatient, _“Hmm_?” that sounds like he’s underestimated exactly _how_ stupid Lance is. Like after all this time and all the chances that he’s thrown Lance’s way, Hunk is finally waking up to exactly how dumb his self-appointed bestie is. Maybe that’s a _curious_ glimmer in his warm brown eyes, instead of an edge that might cut Lance deeper than anybody else could manage? But the way that he’s frowning — the way that Hunk’s lips twist up further with every second that Lance stays silent — says he’s realizing that Lance isn’t a friend so much as he’s a walking headache, or a stray cat-shaped tornado that followed Hunk home and wrecked up his entire life and Hunk only put up with him because he doesn’t _believe_ that he deserves better.

Hunk groans like he wants to call Lance out on something. Probably, Lance deserves it. But he jumps in before Hunk can:

“It _was_ just karaoke, okay!” Tightening his hold on himself, Lance tries to make himself look at Hunk. Because Hunk _deserves_ that much from him, no matter how much Lance might bruise his own elbow getting there. “I mean, I know you like that song, and you said that I should sing it before—”

“Yeah,” Hunk sneers. “And dressing up like you’re straight out of _Ten Things I Hate About You_? That’s _totally_ just karaoke, right? Even _knowing_ what happens and _knowing_ how that scene plays out?”

“It was for _fun_! Because you _like_ that movie, and you like that _song_ , and…”

Trailing off into a groan, Lance shakes his head and drops his eyes. He shouldn’t be raising his voice like this. If Shiro and Pidge were out here, he’d be in for a lecture in stereo about how Battle of the Bands is tomorrow night, and they’re all a band, _together_ , which means that they need Lance’s voice intact. He’d deserve that lecture as much as he deserves Hunk being mad at him right now, but this doesn’t mean that he wants to hear it.

Blinking at his sneakers and Hunk’s belly doesn’t make Lance feel any better. Lance closes his eyes, which sort of makes them stop stinging at him like he might cry. But on the other hand, it means that Lance is left gnawing on his lip, trying to banish all the thoughts about how Hunk’s belly is _so soft_ , so warm and so utterly perfect for a snuggle. He shakes his head, fighting off his feeling that the safest place for Lance would be underneath of Hunk, wriggling against him and wrapped up in his big, strong arms—

God, no. Why does Lance’s brain have to torment him with notions of things he isn’t gonna have? Why does _Hunk_ need to keep staring at Lance as if doing so will somehow change him into someone better, or force him to make sense in the way that Hunk must want? Flushing, Lance sighs. Trying to meet Hunk’s gaze only makes his face grow hotter and makes Lance shut his eyes again.

“Why bother asking me _anything_ if you’ve already got it figured out?” He hates how petulant he sounds, feels like throwing up from how much worse of a hole he’s spectacularly digging for himself. But Lance can’t hold back on saying, “You’re a _genius_ , right? You put it all together? So you _know_ I’m an idiot, and I was trying to be Heath Ledger and win you over instead of waiting for you to decide how you feel on your own, the way I told you I would. And I just — What does it even _matter_ what I have to say at this point, yeah? You know the truth, you know what’s up, you—”

“No, I _don’t_ ,” Hunk snaps, firmly but without cruelty. “But I _do_ know that _you_ know that I have _no idea_ what you think you’re going on about this time.”

As Hunk edges toward his personal space, Lance shuffles backwards. He only stops when his back finds the wall. This, too, is another situation that he’s fantasized about: Hunk crowding in on him with one hand on the wall by Lance’s head, seeming to tower over him and making Lance feel absolutely _teeny-tiny_ , despite how Hunk’s only two inches taller than he is and Shiro posts up both of them without making Lance feel like he’s all that short.

Maybe Fantasy-Hunk has worn an overly somber expression not entirely unlike the one curling up Hunk’s perfect lips. Maybe he’s even grimaced like the real Hunk is doing at Lance now — really, he’s frowned this deeply more times than Lance wants to admit, not even to himself. But in these scenarios, Fantasy-Hunk’s frustration with Lance has always sounded like something out of the questionable erotica on the bookshop’s shelves, the stuff that Shiro’s always telling Lance he doesn’t want to read and rolling his eyes when Lance ignores his warnings and reads it anyway. Even the _really_ bad ones usually have interesting ideas.

Given what he knows of his own habits, Lance bets that Fantasy-Lance would’ve gotten himself into a situation like this by running his mouth off too much in public, contradicting Hunk and making him look stupid, even when he’s more than likely right. Or Fantasy-Lance could’ve been babbling about things he doesn’t understand and making Hunk look bad by virtue of having such a bubble-head boyfriend. Maybe he got flirting too hard with someone else right where Hunk could see him do it, where everyone could see that Hunk could see Lance chatting up somebody who he doesn’t love. He could’ve pulled any number of would-be stunts and done so many shameless things that he knew Hunk would hate, entirely to bait him into coming down on Lance for always doing everything _the wrong way_.

Hovering so close to Lance’s face and glaring at him like this, Fantasy-Hunk would probably hold Lance by the jaw and say something like, _“You did that on purpose, didn’t you? Of course you did, you had to know how I’d take it. But God, you’re such a vapid slut, Lance. You can’t even go two hours without aching to spread your legs for me.”_

The thought of that makes something hot and longing twist up in Lance’s chest. But as he makes himself blink up at Hunk’s face and the silent, unsatisfied demand that’s making him go dull-eyed, a wave slams into Lance like getting shoved into a cold shower with all his clothes still on.

About the only meaningful differences are that he’s in this alleyway, his hair’s still dry and, if any combination Hunk and Matt and Pidge were dousing him in a cold shower, at least Lance would still have Shiro on his team. Even if Shiro remained a conscientious objector, refusing to take up arms for either side because he didn’t want Lance subjected to a pointless, painful exercise but didn’t want to get an up close and personal whiff of the rum in Lance’s Mai Tai-breath. Even if all he did was lean against the bathroom wall, not really obstructing the path to the shower but not hauling Lance around either and definitely sticking his legs into the road just enough to be a nuisance for everybody and impede an effort that he disapproved of.

Even if Shiro only spoke up to pointedly remind everyone that cold showers do not make the body process alcohol any quicker and he would know, consider how often he used to inflict them on himself for _other_ self-abusive reasons and stayed completely drunk — that would still be a massive quiznakking improvement on standing here in this cold and grimy alley, up against this freezing wall, watching Hunk and feeling lonely and left with this sticky, gross sensation like everything that he’s ever thought or felt about anything has gotten stuck in his throat and won’t come out.

Sighing, Hunk lets his face soften. “Lance, come on,” he says, dragging the words out of himself like he doesn’t _want_ to go too easy on Lance, but doesn’t want to push too hard and break him, either. Hunk shifts closer to him, apparently ignores the way Lance blushes when Hunk’s belly nudges up against him. “Lance. Buddy. _Please_ tell me what’s going on?”

“Doesn’t matter.” Lance’s entire face is hot, and God, he hates this. “It _really_ doesn’t.”

So much like his fantasy counterpart, Hunk fixes his eyes on Lance. But so _un_ like his spank bank döppelganger, Hunk keeps his voice soft and even as he says, “It matters to _me_. Okay?”

With a shake of his head, Lance swallows thickly and looks away from Hunk. As if this will work in any possible reality that Lance has access to, he tries to burrow back into the wall. Except the laws of physics are still a thing, and there really isn’t anywhere else for Lance’s body to move against the bricks. Ducking his chin, he closes his eyes so he won’t have to look at how little space there’s getting to be between him and Hunk — Hunk, who’s making all of this sound so simple in tones that Lance shouldn’t get to hear, not after the stunt that Lance pulled tonight. He shouldn’t have one of Hunk’s huge, soft hands brushing down the side of his face as if Lance hasn’t pissed him off, as if _Lance_ is the one who’s hurting worse and needs to be protected.

Then again, he shouldn’t be getting any chance to explain himself, and yet, he is— “Look, I know I fucked it up, tonight I _get_ that,” Lance mutters before he can remember what impulse control feels like.

Since that sentiment’s out in the air between them now and Lance can’t take it back, he heaves a deep breath and forces his head back up. It almost hurts to force his eyelids back open, but not as much as it kicks Lance in the stomach to stare back at the wide-eyed, frightened bunny face that Hunk’s making at him. For all the concern that’s crept in over top of Hunk’s frustration, more than anything else, he looks like he wants to scamper off and hide and, knowing Hunk, probably throw up everything he’s eaten today, then need Lance to make him something before they can remotely dream of picking this conversation back up where they left off.

Even thinking that makes Lance want to hug Hunk, but he can’t right now, so he hugs himself harder instead. He stifles his own groan; he doesn’t need any more things to explain himself about tonight. “I wasn’t trying to upset you or make you mad or whatever like that, okay?”

“You almost never _try_ to get anybody riled up,” Hunk points out, so gently that it almost makes Lance lean his cheek against Hunk’s hand. “When you _aren’t_ onstage, I mean. You get excited, and caught up in whatever all that’s going on, and it just _happens_ that people might not like it—”

“But I wanted to make you _happy_ , though. Or make you _smile_ tonight, at least. Take the edge off of everything for you, a little bit.” Lance has to shut his eyes again as he draws in a deep, barely steadying breath. The wide-eyed, bemused expression Hunk’s giving him is too much for Lance to deal with, right now, this very second. He can’t handle that face and how it reminds him how to hope that Hunk might love him back.

Strictly speaking, Lance wouldn’t enjoy handling that expression on any other day, either. But he _definitely_ can’t do it now. Not while he’s steeling himself as much as possible and admitting to Hunk, “You’ve been a total mess of nerves, the past few days — more than your usual, I mean. We have a _show_ tomorrow, Battle of the Bands and everything? And you can’t play your best when you get really, super-persistently nervous, you _know_ you can’t—”

“Fine,” Hunk cuts in with a short, hard tone like this isn’t really fine to him at all. “But how do Frankie Valli and your half-baked Heath Ledger impersonation fit into _anything_ about this?”

“Because you _like_ the song, you like the _movie_ , and I thought it would be _funny_!”

Lance rolls his eyes and immediately blushes. Shit, he shouldn’t have done that. God, he’s probably making Hunk feel dismissed and belittled and like he’s totally unimportant. _Stupid, stupid, stupid, just shut up Lance, shut up and stop doing anything, shut your trap and let **Hunk** talk now, and whatever you get up to, don’t say anything to make this **worse** —_

“Come _on_ , Hunk,” his mouth pipes up for him. “If I so much as _thought_ I wanted to give you an actual public declaration of love through karaoke, don’t you think I’d make Keith hit me with a dictionary first? Like, make him slap me back to my senses before I could even go sign up for that?”

Hunk tilts his head. While the angle would be perfect to swoop in and snag a kiss, his half-blank and completely lost expression kills that notion before Lance needs to remind himself how terrible that idea is.

(And it _is_ a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad idea — Lance knows that much without a doubt. He doesn’t even need to run this by Shiro and hear from _him_ that kissing Hunk right now would be a bad idea. He’s already planted _one_ kiss on Hunk without any respect for his boundaries or actually getting his consent. Doing it again? Not to mention doing it when Hunk is genuinely _mad at him_ and trying to act like he isn’t for reasons Lance cannot begin to fathom? God, that would probably be one of Lance’s worst ideas ever in his entire life, and that’s some seriously steep competition. Even just in the past week, he’s had some pretty questionable ideas.)

“Uh, not to, like, massively derail or anything?” As he wrinkles his nose, Hunk’s face makes it obvious how many gears are turning inside his head. Which, in turn, doesn’t make Lance feel any better about this conversation. He’s making Hunk get that face he makes when he can’t figure out what’s bugging him about a transition between songs. Rolling one of his shoulders in clear agitation, Hunk prods with, “But why would you ask _Keith_ for help with literally _anything_?”

“Because I know that _Shiro_ wouldn’t do it!” Lance squawks. He _hates_ that he’s squawking, but he’s still doing it. No way around that because no other word currently fits Lance’s voice quite well enough. “Pidge could be convinced, but it wouldn’t hurt enough from her to make me really get the point. And, like, she wouldn’t have any experience to come at me about with this, and Shiro _would_. But Shiro _also_ wouldn’t hit me, if I asked him. He’d just sit me down and make me talk about why I’d even _want_ someone to hit me! Like it’s somehow not completely _obvious_ that—”

“Not for nothing, man? But I’m _seriously_ not following you at all, like? There is _so much_ going on here that I am _totally_ not—”

“I wouldn’t _want_ to give you some great, big public display like that!”

Fighting down a groan hurts Lance’s throat. But it can’t possibly hurt as much as trying to sing tomorrow after stressing out his voice tonight. Even that wouldn’t hurt Lance as much as protesting too much could so easily hurt Hunk.

Tugging a hand back through his hair, Lance huffs. “Okay, to be fair? Maybe I would _think_ about doing something like that, because I’m _stupid_ and I like attention? But if I ever did that without asking, you’d probably hate it and you might not even _get it_ how I wanted. And Keith knows how bad an idea it is to use karaoke for any declarations of love, but unlike _Shiro_ , he might _hit me_ if I ever asked him to.”

Dimly, Lance isn’t entirely certain of that statement. Sure, Keith might well have some anger issues — or at least, he definitely has some other issues that manifest themselves in ways that look like he has trouble with his anger — but if nothing else, the fact that he loves Shirito would probably make him hold back, if Lance asked that walking, talking mess to let loose and smack him. Not that this really _matters_ , when Hunk’s looking so confused that _not following_ what Lance is on about might be the only thing keeping him from throwing a punch.

(Fine, maybe friendship and affection and concern for Lance, as well. But Lance’s own thoughts are jerking him around, grabbing onto any damn thing that gets within arm’s length of them, which sucks for Lance and might be borderline _unbearable_ for Hunk, especially when he’s _already ticked off_ with Lance.)

—But shit, God, fucking right, where were they? Sighing more heatedly than he likes, Lance rubs both hands at his nose. Pinches a bit too hard and grinds with more intent than necessary, for sure. But really, that’s kinda the point. Lance _has_ to find some way to focus. He _needs_ to make his brain play nicely because all of this sucks enough without him mentally meandering off to Mars or even further while Hunk is trying to call him out. Deservedly so, at that. Which must mean that Lance looks like he’s trying to weasel out of this _Talk_ , and as he tries to force the tension out of himself, he can’t even come up with an argument for that.

“Look, I’m _sorry_ that I picked a stupid song tonight,” he mutters, because Hunk’s still waiting for something from Lance that magically clears up everything between the two of them.

Sure, Lance doesn’t feel like he has that magic something hiding anywhere on his person. But at the moment, he’s got more than Hunk to offer and more reason to explain himself, which that kinda makes it _his_ responsibility to take point on talking. “I didn’t even think about the song itself, or what it _means_ — not even, like? I only thought about what’s up with _us_ right now because Shiro thought I seemed pissy or something—”

“Dude, you _were_ kind of temperamental with everyone all night. Way more so than _your_ usual—”

“Fine, so I was _antsy_ and I’m _frustrated_ , and I didn’t plan for waiting to be so _freaking hard_ on me? But _come. On. Hunk_. Seriously?”

Dropping his hands from his face, Lance has to look Hunk in the eye again. Maybe it’s not what he’d _prefer_ to do. At the same time, though? Any more pressure, and Lance might break his nose. He just hopes he doesn’t look too totally pathetic as he says, “Even if I _would_ pull some confessional karaoke stunt like Shirito and his _‘it’s complicated’_? I _promised_ that I’d wait for you, didn’t I?”

While he’s sighing, Lance’s body tries to slouch, because this conversation is _way too fucking much_. All this does is knock his hips into Hunk’s. Reflexively, they twist against him and Lance’s back rolls itself out while his lungs gasp at the pressure that is all his fault — _oh, Jesus, no_. Shit, God, no, this is _not_ the behavior of somebody who’s actually okay with waiting for his best friend to sort out his feelings before romantically rejecting him.

Lance’s heartbeat spikes and his face must match the bricks right now, it feels so hot and goddamn red. Scrambling, his legs flail like they’ve decided to turn into Jello. But Lance wriggles as far away from Hunk as he can manage. He straightens up and goes flat against the wall. No matter how much his heart screams at him to _grab hold of Hunk and never let him go_ , Lance holds up both hands as if surrendering. There — now, Hunk can’t make any mistakes about where these hands are or what Lance is doing with them.

Mistakes about anything might well be the last thing on Hunk’s mind, period. This straightening up and pulling away sure doesn’t make him seem any more relaxed. Not that Lance expected a full-on smile or anything, under the current circumstances. But he can’t help scrunching up his face at how Hunk’s frowning at him. He doesn’t have the edge of anger he’s tried so hard to keep tonight; he has a wistful glimmer as if he’s more put out than any other thing he could be feeling. His shoulders aren’t squared or tensed up anywhere. Somehow, even with his one arm still bracing him against the wall, Hunk manages to slouch like he’s trying to curl in around himself. Dejected. Uncertain. His feet shuffle on the pavement and his shoulders rock from side to side in a way that Lance has seen too many times to mistake it for anything else.

This is the same posture that Hunk had at every high school dance where he hovered by the punch bowl while Lance bounced around the dance-floor, or during every slow song that he spent not getting asked to the floor by anyone. His expression refuses to settle on one mood and stay there — refuses to stick with looking happy or mystified or anxious or anything; he can’t even commit to glancing around, in search of the hidden camera — and it’s the same way Hunk looked when Shay and Matt first asked him out, and the same way Hunk looked when they reminded him that they _liked_ going out with him. He’s got the same dark blush rising to his cheeks that he did at his and Lance’s senior prom, when the speakers started blasting a mix of mid-tempo piano and guitar riffs sampled from Queen’s “We Will Rock You,” and Lance held out a hand for him.

Worst of all, he can’t look at Lance anymore, just like he couldn’t at that dance, when Lady Gaga started drawling, _“It’s been a long time since I came around”_ and Lance held out a hand for him, telling him that he wasn’t going to spend every slow dance of their last prom sitting in a folding chair by the fire exit. Eyes fixed on his hands where they were twisting in his lap, Hunk tried to point out that both of them were guys and their school’s “no tolerance” bullying policy hadn’t kept some of their classmates from harassing the Gay-Straight Alliance members, Lance included. He only looked up at Lance when Lance shook his open palm under Hunk’s face.

_“Man, come on,”_ Lance said with a certainty that feels so alien to him now, even when he’s just remembering it. _“Nobody’s gonna bug us about it during a Lady freaking Gaga song. Hannah and Rosalyn are dancing together, and no one cares. Will you **please** get off of your adorable ass and **dance with me**?”_

Maybe Hunk isn’t remembering that night, right now. Maybe, because he doesn’t take Adderall and it isn’t hardcore wearing off, he’s not getting drowned in memories of how he and Lance both blushed when Lance tugged him to the dance-floor and Hunk pressed Lance up against his chest. Maybe he isn’t thinking about slinging his arms around Lance’s waist, or resting one of his beautiful, thick-fingered hands on the small of Lance’s back, or Lance looking him in the eye and crooning along with Gaga’s chorus, all, _“Somethin’, somethin’ about my cool Nebraska guy. Yeah, somethin’ about, baby, you and I.”_

Maybe, though, that would be preferable to Hunk getting this kicked puppy-looking expression, then slumping even further and sighing like everything in the universe is hanging on him right now and he’s certain, right down to his bone marrow, that he’s letting everybody down.

“Lance, I… Look, I’m sorry, too,” he says, voice suspiciously, almost pointedly blank. “For what it’s worth, probably not that much, considering? But if it makes a difference, then I didn’t mean anything like that with my song, either—”

“Dude, why would you have?” Lance’s mouth twists itself up and he can’t tell what kind of face he’s making. In the hopes of jerking it loose, he shakes his head. Probably doesn’t work out how he wants, but whatever. “No, seriously, Hunkules. You like Pat Benatar. You _love_ that song. Why would I just _assume_ you had any ulterior motives in singing it at karaoke?”

“I dunno, maybe because it means a _lot_ to me? And it’s kind of a love song, while I’m kind of, sort of, hella keeping you waiting right now? And how I’m doing it in a way that means I kinda, sorta, hella _definitely_ have no right to be singing ‘Love Is A Battlefield’ as if _you’re_ the one who’s stringing _me_ along, and just—”

With a gasp, Hunk cuts himself off. Thank God that his lungs remembered how he needs to breathe instead of babbling all night, since his brain sure doesn’t seem to be too on the ball about it.

Lance could chime in while letting Hunk catch his breath. Part of him _wants_ to, because this relative silence shit is total garbage. But he’s been enough of an impatient ass tonight, and he’s probably not gonna help either of them out by popping off when he should shut up and let Hunk speak his piece.

When he’s ready, Hunk tries to force one of his bashful, apologetic smiles. It strains his cheeks in a way that can’t possibly be comfortable, and he doesn’t hold it very long. Still, he tries, and Lance has no idea what to make of that right now. Hunk forces smiles in so many different kinds of contexts, after all. True, his problem with this isn’t quite as bad as Shiro’s, but it’s bad enough that the only thing Hunk’s flash of a grin tells Lance is that Hunk feels like he should be smiling, even though he really doesn’t need to, at the moment.

“Anyway,” Hunk mutters. “When Keith came after me, he said that you looked _lovesick_ while watching me sing—”

“Keith doesn’t speak for me, though, man! Keith barely even _knows_ me, yet.” Which seems so common-sensible that Lance kinda can’t believe that it needs saying?

But at the same time, he sighs and his mouth takes over for him: “He was _right_ , though. Which is, like? Mostly, I looked like that because I’m over-the-top _in love_ with you — but I mean, really? It’s super-annoying of him to say that, though, like? Holy crow, is this any of his freaking business? It’s bad _enough_ for him to stick his nose into things like this when he got on _my case_ for asking what his intentions were with Shiro. But God, what is his _deal_? Does he just get off on making me look _terrible_ with people—”

“Uh, well, he came to get me because he wanted to be a pal? So, _not_ because of anything to do with you?” Hunk shrugs like _he_ can’t believe Lance needs that spelled out for him. “And not like there are sides to take about this? But if there were, he wouldn’t have taken yours _or_ mine. But he _did_ kinda stick up for you—”

“He kinda did with Ryou, too, while you were gone. It was fucking _weird_ —”

“Yeah, well? Weird or not, it…” A thick swallow. Hunk purses his lips and huffs as if reassuring himself that he can do this, he can do this — whatever his, _“this”_ is, he needs to know that he can do it. “Just? I just think that you’re _possibly_ letting yourself get mad at Keith unfairly because it’s easier for you to deal with than the rest of this?”

“Well, _duh,”_ Lance drawls, hugging himself in lieu of anywhere to slouch. “The guy I’m totally ass over teabagging in love with? This guy, who also happens to be one the best friends that I’ve ever had in my entire, sorry life? Who’s been with me for longer than the rest of them and who I _thought_ knew me better than I know myself? Yeah, he’s saying all kinds of stuff that sure fricking _sounds_ like he thinks I’m stringing him along when I’d rather die—”

“I _don’t_ think you are, though, that’s just—” Hunk groans, and God, they’re so lucky that he’s not one of the main vocalists. If Lance or Shiro had dredged up a noise like that — something so anguished, coming from so deep inside their chests and sounding like it has to claw its way up their throats — then Battle of the Bands would be over before for them it’s even started. “I mean, that’s what I _said_ , isn’t it? I told you that I shouldn’t have done the Pat Benatar tonight because you’re _not_ stringing me anywhere, and that’s why I’ve got no right—”

“But I didn’t _say_ you meant it _consciously_ or anything!” Letting his head hang forward, Lance only barely resists the urge to smack it on the wall. “I just… Is _that_ why you didn’t see it coming? Is _that_ why you’re taking so long here? You feel like there’s no way I’m actually into you or like I’d never think about you like—”

“No, okay? It isn’t! I mean — okay, part of it maybe is, but like? Not _all_ of it is like that, just…”

With a sigh, Hunk keeps slumping forward. Either he’s too far gone right now to notice that his body’s nestling up on Lance’s, or maybe he just doesn’t care. His mouth is _right here_ , well within good kissing distance. But the blush creeping back onto Lance’s cheeks keeps him from doing anything _too_ horrifically, unforgivably idiotic. Helps Lance keep his mouth shut while Hunk shuts his eyes, going pensive and quiet all over again.

After a few moments, Hunk snarls in the same way he does when he can’t figure out how to fix something broken.

“Okay, I mean… You’re not _wrong_?” he offers. For all Lance wants to interject right now, he digs his teeth into his lip. Mouth shut, voice off, letting Hunk speak without any interruption. “I think I _have_ been feeling kinda like that? But I also know it’s stupid, like? If you only wanted to get attention from me or something, you wouldn’t go to all these crazy lengths to get it — or, well, I mean? You kind of _would_ go to some pretty crazy lengths to get attention? But definitely not like this, and not with me when you _know_ that there are easier ways…”

Trailing off, he looks at Lance in expectation. When Lance only shrugs in response, Hunk arches a pointedly quizzical eyebrow. Saying nothing — biting back on the litany of objections and counterpoints that are clawing up the inside of his chest — Lance quirks his shoulders again like he doesn’t know what Hunk is trying to angle at, right now. Hunk makes a face like he just found sour milk in the Holt siblings’ fridge again, but soldiers on:

“All I meant when you told me how you feel? Was exactly what I said, okay?” That shouldn’t be a real question so much as a statement with an upward inflection that’s meant to make it sound more respectful or some kind of rhetorical shit like that. Even so, Hunk waits for Lance to nod in understanding before he tells him, “I didn’t see that confession coming from you, and I _never_ thought that in a million years, you’d _ever_ be in love with me? And if you think I’m stupid for that, well… So do Pidge and Keith and probably Shiro and Ryou, too, so? Good company? You kinda have that on your side right now?”

A hesitant noise follows, creaking up out of Hunk’s throat as he shuffles from side-to-side. God, how can he even miss the way he’s wriggling against Lance right now? Unless he’s _trying_ to be a tease, but knowing Hunk and knowing how any insecurity can make him get about his body, Lance’s money is going on, _“He’s oblivious, because he’s too nervous to pay any mind to the way he occupies physical space. It’s probably taking everything Hunk has to keep himself from puking, so the only thing to do is breathe in deep and try not to let him get Lance hard.”_

Most nights, that’d be easier said than done. Hunk’s hips are grinding up on Lance’s, every time he shifts his weight around, and _fuck_ , his belly and chest both feel so soft, and safe, and warm while they’re rubbing up on Lance like this. But each time Hunk makes Lance’s heartbeat spike or unwittingly sets his head spinning, Lance’s nerves ratchet up as well, reminding him that this discussion isn’t over, Hunk has not made up his mind entirely, and he could all too easily decide that he deserves better than putting up with Lance after all—

“I mean, I’ve never questioned that you _love_ me, but?” Hunk shrugs, bashfully but without any attempted smile. “I didn’t think… Romantically? Like, we’ve shared a bed and it’s been, ‘just friends’ before. And before Keith showed up, you made out with Shiro, like full-on put your tongue in his mouth and let him grope you all over, and you two did _that_ stuff just as friends — and I mean? As friends who obviously _aren’t_ romantically in love with each other—”

Without a thought, Lance jumps in to say, “D’you want to know how many _freaking_ times I ever killed the mood by saying _your_ name while _Shiro’s_ hand was on my ass?”

Blinking at him almost vacantly, Hunk makes a sound like, _“I don’t know.”_

He’s probably sounded off more than enough as is, but God, Lance can’t stop himself from adding on, “Would it help at all, even just a little bit? Or what about if I told you why ‘Yoü  & I’ is one of my, ‘I really wanna jerk off but I _also_ really wanna treat myself to a little romance for tonight’ songs?”

“You mean it’s _not_ because Gaga was your bisexual wet dream in the video? Because she could be herself, or her dude alter ego, _and_ a weird-looking but super-hot mermaid?” Hunk narrows his eyes suspiciously. He isn’t _daring_ Lance to contradict him, but clearly, he’s believed this for a while now. Letting go of that conviction might be an unexpected task for him.

In his defense, Lance _did_ spend most of their senior year of high school saying shit like that.

But now, he slowly shakes his head. He blushes, but makes himself keep looking Hunk in the eyes. “It’s just…”

Lance sighs. God, if this confession doesn’t work, he’s going to scream and Battle of the Bands can go dive off headfirst the nearest bridge.

“When I’m, y’know? In the _mood_? The mood to treat myself like that? Not to _fuck myself_ , but to, like? Make _love_ to myself? Or just make things more romantic ‘cause I’m _emotionally_ frustrated, as much as I am sexually, it’s just…” Digging his fingertips onto his elbow, Lance forces himself to bite out, “I think about dancing with you at senior prom, okay?”

“Whoa, wait,” Hunk blurts out. “Wait, _seriously_ —”

“ _Yes, Hunk! Fucking seriously!_ ”

Lance cringes and mumbles an apology for making Hunk flinch like that. Hunching his shoulders, he explains, “Look, I turn off all the big lamps and flick on my Christmas lights, okay? Because that’s more like how they lit the gym that night. Then, I put on ‘Yoü & I’ because _that’s_ the song we slow-danced to. And I think about how warm you were, and how your hand felt on my back, and how you kept brushing your fingers lower but you didn’t touch my butt, even though I wished you would have—”

“I didn’t… I mean, I _wanted_ to,” Hunk mumbles. “But I thought you were just dancing with me to be nice.”

“ _Me too_ , at first, okay? And I kept thinking that for _years_. I got all flushed and I felt like someone whanged me upside the head with all these _feelings_ , like I’d tripped and fallen and I’d started _seeing_ you for real, but…”

A dry, cracked-sounding chuckle kicks itself up out of him as Lance hugs himself even tighter. “But I’m a _coward_ , okay? I’m a coward, and I didn’t want to deal with how I felt about you, like _somehow_ , that’d make it easier when you found somebody else because you didn’t love me back—”

“But you never…” Hunk crowds in on Lance almost _protectively_ , which is weird as Hell — but he returns to making perfect sense when he points out, “I mean? Don’t you think that’s a decision that I _should_ have been involved in? Like, I should’ve had a say in _any_ of that, maybe?”

“ _Yes!_ Exactly,” Lance whines. He hates that he’s legitimately full-on whining, at the moment, but God, this talk is _killing him_ a little. Or possibly a lot. “That’s why I even _told you_ anything, right? Because assuming how you feel is part of the entire problem. It was gross, and stupid, and it _completely_ disrespected you, and I don’t _want_ to treat you like that and hurt you. And I didn’t want to push you, I hate it but I’ll wait however long you need, it’s just—”

Lance _meant_ , when he started speaking, for that thought to go somewhere, eventually.

Instead, Hunk’s lips collide with his own, and Hunk’s free arm snakes around his waist. That hand spreads out on the small of Lance’s back, holding Lance fast against Hunk’s front. Sighing into Hunk’s mouth, Lance slips his arms up around Hunk’s shoulders. He tugs himself up, even further and deeper into Hunk’s mouth, into this kiss.

Knowing them, there’s more they’ll need to talk about later. There’s more they’ll need to figure out or play by ear as things go on. But for right now — for as long as Hunk wants to let this moment last — it’s enough for Lance to press himself into Hunk’s embrace, to feel Hunk’s mouth on his mouth, and to give up a breathy moan when Hunk squeezes his ass like Lance is something precious that he couldn’t stand to lose.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *splits up another chapter about halfway through the planned action, pretty much entirely for the sake of posting what’s already finished so I’ll stop looking at how long it’s been since the last chapter, then berating myself and getting discouraged*
> 
> —Like, seriously, that’s it. I could make something up about how it made more sense to me to split this bit up from Battle of the Bands because of some reason or another. But the real reason is that I’ve been beating myself up over how much time I spent wallowing in the post-holiday hangover and how my brain wanted me to exorcise some Shiro and Ryou-flavored backstory angst before I could get back to work on this, so I’m trying to put a pin in that already.

Eventually, Keith has to disentangle himself from making out with Shiro. There’s nothing fun about it. The bed, after all, is warm and has the distinct advantage of Shiro being in it, kissing Keith as deeply as Keith will let him go with morning-breath, and gently palming everywhere that he can reach, like the worst possible thing in the world would be letting a single inch of Keith’s body go uncaressed (or, in the case of Keith’s ass, ungroped). Getting out of bed seems not only like the more difficult option, but also unnecessarily _cold_. At the very least, it can’t be as nice and cozy as nestling against Shiro’s chest and idly lipping at the hickeys on his neck.

On the other hand, it’s sort of cute, how he reacts. Shiro makes a soft huffing noise when Keith squirms away and it makes him sound like a cat who’s feeling terribly offended that Keith would even dream of putting his hands to other uses than petting it. He progresses to full-on whining when Keith sits up and stretches out his back and shoulders. Like this, Shiro sounds as endearing as he does ridiculous. Here he is, a full six-foot-three and nearly twenty-eight with his sculpted muscles and broad shoulders, and he’s wriggling around under his cocoon of blankets, groaning about how they don’t need to be anywhere until later, his boss gave him today off to get ready for Battle of the Bands as if he doesn’t want to get up and go back to school after a long weekend.

Arching an eyebrow down at him coaxes Shiro partly out of the realm of people who desperately want to go back to sleep. Silently, he props himself up on one elbow and turns a look on Keith that’s a few shades too plaintive and pouting to take completely seriously. Not least when Shiro goes from brushing the backs of his fingers down Keith’s left arm, stroking his skin and the pale pink scar Keith’s had for as long as he can remember, to lunging toward Keith and flopping with his face between Keith’s legs.

Unfortunately for Shiro, he topples onto the mattress, just shy of Keith’s crotch. In lieu of hitting his intended mark, he groans and fumbles one hand until he manages to find Keith’s thigh and cop a feel, because why wouldn’t he do that when he has the chance and a very willing Keith on-hand. For all he takes up petting Shiro’s soft, messy hair, Keith frowns at the back of his head. Not that he’d agree with any argument that swallowing after a bare blow-job constitutes an acceptable breakfast, but he wouldn’t have minded Shiro trying to distract him with one. Or instead giving one to Shiro, maybe.

Either of those options, though, would’ve required Shiro to stick his landing and nuzzle at Keith’s dick, and not the bed-sheets. It shouldn’t have been particularly difficult for him, either. Maybe he missed on purpose for some reason? Making himself seem more charmingly pathetic so Keith might stay in bed? It wouldn’t be entirely unprecedented, but as long as he gets up eventually, it probably doesn’t matter that much.

With a few taps on the back of the head, Keith gets Shiro to look at him. A couple taps on his jaw and he shoves himself up enough for Keith to give him a kiss on the forehead once he’s off the mattress properly. The moving away earns Keith another round of whining, but he gives Shiro an indulgent sigh and tucks the white forelock behind his ear.

“Come out when you’re ready,” he says. “Unless I finish making breakfast first. Then I might drag you out.”

Shiro tries, and soundly fails, to hide a yawn behind his arm. “Mean.”

“I know, I know. I’m so cruel,” Keith deadpans, smirking fondly. “It must be horrible. How do you put up with it.”

“Mmm, ‘cause I love you.” Lopsided by caffeine-deprivation though it is, Shiro’s smile is no less adoring than when he’s fully awake. His eyes still glimmer as if having Keith here with him is better than finding the Holy Grail. Scratching his stubble, he tacks on, “And you’re not actually mean, y’know—” A grunt as he works a crick out of his neck. “Just in case you might try thinking I was serious.”

Keith knows full well that Shiro didn’t mean it like that. Confirming this fact gets him to stretch up enough to steal a brief, scratchy kiss.

Pausing only long enough to steal one of Shiro’s t-shirts, Keith heads out into the waking world. His backpack and Shiro’s bag sit by the coffee-table, exactly where they were last night when Keith headed for the shower. Ryou must’ve set them there when he got in — good to know, if not Keith’s top priority, right now. After all, he won’t get much further in _Knowledge or Death_ without first taking a leak and putting food together.

Scratching idly at his stomach, Keith tries to stay relatively quiet as he shuffles past Lance’s room to the bathroom. On his way to the kitchen, he notes a _“Do Not Disturb”_ sign, apparently stolen from a hotel uptown and hanging off the handle of Lance’s door. For all Keith arches an eyebrow at the thing and sorta wants to know why Lance stole it in the first place, he isn’t arguing. Seemed like Lance and Hunk were working things out alright last night, and who knows? Maybe Lance is less of a tightly-wound, over-enthusiastic handful when he’s had sex with someone recently.

Given what Keith knows of Lance, he isn’t betting on that idea. But still, it’s nice to dream.

Coffee is the first priority, once Keith’s in the kitchen. To his surprise, Keith finds a fresh, mostly full pot waiting for him. Which would make sense, if he’d seen either hide or hair of anybody — but really, who argues with free coffee? Probably a lot of people out there, Keith assumes. He, however, isn’t one of them. He is someone who gets to have a _Star Trek_ mug full of coffee while slouching against the counter and pondering what to whip up for breakfast. There’s always eggs. They’re quick and easy and Shiro likes them in multiple ways. Keith could get creative with them, if he wanted, but God, there are so many options and Keith has no idea which—

“Y’know, that coffee could’ve been poisoned. It _isn’t_ , but it could’ve been,” someone says, mercifully cutting into Keith’s reverie, chiding him without much actual intent behind it.

Looking up from his drink, Keith blinks over at the table. More specifically, he blinks at Ryou, who is sitting at the table with his own mug of coffee and a plate of the most nondescript-looking scrambled eggs that Keith has ever seen in his life. Bedhead doesn’t make Ryou’s haircut look any less ridiculous than it did at the bar, and he flicks through his phone with one hand while the other pokes at his food with a fork.

Ruffling a hand over his own hair, Keith purses his lips. “How long have you been there?”

“Eh, not that long. Longer than you.” Ryou looks up and gives Keith a tight, not-quite-smile. It makes him look slightly nauseated, but unless he’s changed so much that he might as well be a wholly different person, that’s probably just Ryou’s face. With a huff, he clarifies, “I’ve been up for _maybe_ half-an-hour. My roommate called to make sure I was okay.”

“You didn’t _tell_ him that you weren’t coming home last night?” This seems weirdly irresponsible, by Ryou standards. Hell, Shiro always made sure Keith knew whether he’d be home or not, unless he got more wasted than he’d planned or had Maurice-shaped extenuating circumstances (or sometimes, had both of those factors going on at once).

“Oh, I told him I was sleeping here. Slav just…” Rolling his eyes, Ryou sighs in the bone-deep, long-suffering manner of someone who’s gotten far too accustomed to explaining another person’s hot nonsense behaviors. “Currently, he’s sleep-deprived and over-caffeinated. Sven couldn’t talk him out of worrying about all the infinite possible timelines and realities where I might not have been okay.”

Keith supposes that Slav sounds like a handful, to which Ryou neither agrees nor disagrees. Rather unhelpful, but not entirely unlike Ryou’s ever been toward Keith when there hasn’t been a looming, Shiro-related crisis that demanded more attention from both of them. As much as Keith wants to find something _positive_ in the reassuring familiarity of Ryou’s behavior, something feels _distinctly_ off about finding him here like this. Sure, making the coffee could easily have been Ryou showing some courtesy, accounting for everyone else in the apartment while making something that he wanted anyway. But can things _really_ be that easy?

Everything clicks into place when, flicking through something on his phone again, Ryou asks, “You sleep well?”

Which _sounds_ noncommittal enough that it might not mean anything, but it makes Keith’s cheeks twinge warm and pink regardless. Wrinkling his nose, he digs the small of his back against the edge of the counter and huffs. “Is this the part where you ply me with coffee and interrogate me about my intentions with your brother?”

“This is the part where you make breakfast and I eat mine,” he says. “And if he takes too long to do it himself, one of us goes to drag Kashi out here so he can eat and take his meds in a _timely_ manner. But he had a busy day and a long night, so I’m not too concerned about him yet.”

“But you were sitting right here,” Keith points out. “While no one else is awake. With coffee.”

“Yes. Because I wanted to eat breakfast at the best table for it, and making coffee for everyone seemed courteous. And easier.” In response to Keith’s skeptical sound, Ryou shrugs. “I don’t want to hear any of Lance’s whining, thus? _Easier_ for me to make enough coffee for everybody.”

“But you’re just… With the coffee…” Flushing hot, Keith can’t stop his mouth from saying, “And you were asking about me and Shiro having sex?!”

That pulls Ryou back out of his phone. He furrows his brow at Keith bemusedly, as if he’s looking for an answer he can’t find, written in a language that he can’t decipher. After a moment, though, he rolls his eyes. Shaking his head, he mutters, “Oh my God, I thought Kashi was _exaggerating_ —”

“About _what_?”

“Your ability to find significance that _isn’t there_.” Yawning, Ryou musses a hand over his hair. How he can look so unruffled about this discussion, Keith doesn’t understand. “Mind you, he said it about you two’s history with karaoke, but it applies here, too. Because I absolutely _was not_ asking how last night’s sex was.”

“But you said that—”

“Keith, I’m probably going to about hear about how good the sex was from my _brother_ ,” he says, matter-of-factly. “I’m very much in favor of you and Kashi continuing to have said sex. But it’s not my business, and I don’t need to hear it from both of you.”

Making himself take several deep breaths and whiffs of coffee-scent to go with it, Keith bites back his immediate, gut-impulse response. Trying to relocate some sense of grounding, or whatever the closest thing that he can get might be, he scratches his back on the counter again. Sure, this addresses an itch that only now decides to make itself known. Otherwise, though, this sensation still leaves Keith befuddled and adrift, slogging through his own thoughts without much of a clue how they compare to reality. How is it even fair for him to feel the brain-lag that says he needs to eat something without actually feeling hungry?

“Okay, fair points?” Keith concedes, just barely managing to keep Ryou from returning to his phone. “But, ‘He had a long night’? And asking how I slept? I mean, those _sound_ like insinuations about the sex, and you’re his _brother_ , so you care about him? And after everything he’s been through, it’s not like you’d be exactly out of bounds—”

“As long as Kashi isn’t in trouble or sleeping with Lotor again? I have no interest in meddling in anything he does in bed.” A sip of coffee, a pensive hum, and Ryou almost manages to sound peaceful while saying, “I object to Lotor specifically because them sleeping together usually overlaps with, ‘Kashi is in trouble or going to end up there very soon if this keeps going.’ Also, because I hate Lotor but he’s earned that.”

“But that’s still objecting to somebody being with him in particular—”

Letting out an _ugh_ , Ryou rolls his eyes. “Is _your_ name, ‘Lotor.’ Have you changed it recently.”

“Well, no, but—”

“Then you’re fine. Unless circumstances somehow change, I’m not going to interfere in your and Kashi’s relationship.” This earns Ryou another confused, skeptical noise, and he puts his phone down on the table and lets go of his mug. Slouching onto an elbow, he rubs at his temples so hard, it might be a miracle that he doesn’t work his fingertips clean through his skull. “Keith, I don’t need to ask what your intentions with him are because they’re _obvious_ —”

“They might not be!” Keith’s face flushes hotter than before, hot enough to make him feel sick. He curls his hands tighter around his mug, heated ceramic pressing into his palms. Something feels like it’s stuck in his throat — at least until Ryou scoffs at him. “Come on, Maurice seemed fine when Shiro first met him, too. So did Lotor, apparently. So how can you even sit there and—”

“ _Keith_ ,” Ryou snaps, eyes flashing dangerously. “Listen to me very carefully. I have no desire to repeat myself about this today.”

Keith waits in silence. Ryou doesn’t clear his throat, much less go on, until Keith nods for him in understanding.

Looking straight at Keith, Ryou tells him, “If I had any reason to think your intentions with Kashi were untoward or that you might seriously hurt him? Yes, I would interrogate you and meddle in my brother’s love life as necessary. But I don’t have reason to think that because you. Are _not_. Maurice. You aren’t Lotor, either. Why would I judge _your_ relationship with my brother based on the one he has with that smarmy, self-aggrandizing drama prince? Why would I judge _your_ relationship with Kashi based on the one he had with his _abuser_.”

“I’m not _saying_ that you would,” Keith protests. “But their intentions _weren’t_ obvious—”

“But _yours_ are. Your intentions are clearer than you apparently realize. Because you know what else you aren’t, in addition to being neither Maurice nor Lotor?” He pauses long enough for Keith to guess that he has no idea. “ _Subtle_ , Keith. That’s what you definitely are not. At least, not about what you want from Kashi, which might as well be a giant, flashing neon sign—”

“But what’s written on the giant, flashing neon sign kinda makes a _difference_ , doesn’t it? Like, don’t you think that…”

Keith wrinkles his nose as Ryou tries not to smirk. He frowns as Ryou fails to bite back an incredulous snicker. As Ryou snorts and fast progresses into genuine, full-bodied laughter, Keith scowls and stomps as if this will give him all the extra emphasis he needs. “I’m being _serious_!”

“ _Why_ , though?” Ryou bites out, struggling to rein himself in. “Here’s what I see on your giant neon sign, Keith: ‘I am madly, over the moon in love with Takashi Shirogane. And now that I know how he loves me back? I want to be with and do right by him, I want him to be with and do right by me, and I want him to be happy.’”

Arching an eyebrow, he smirks at Keith’s hunched shoulders and deepening grimace. “Am I _wrong_?”

“ _No_ ,” Keith admits, groaning. “I just… Didn’t think it was… I mean, I kinda _did_ think it was that obvious before? But then it _wasn’t_ , not to him? And now, it’s just like…” He huffs, then drains the rest of his coffee. “I dunno, after everything he’s been through and how long I’ve been out of his life? I thought you would’ve wanted to vet me. Lance sure wanted to—”

“Do I look like _Lance_ to you,” Ryou deadpans. He waits for Keith to agree that no, Ryou is taller and broader and chubbier than Lance, he has a different shade and tones to his skin, and he isn’t wearing a Kesha crop-top or skinny jeans that look like they’re cutting off the circulation in his legs. Then, Ryou gives Keith a smirk that seems fonder than his usual. “Exactly. Whatever made _Lance_ want to interrogate you? Isn’t an issue to me. You’re fine, we’re good, you have my wholehearted, fraternal blessing to be with my brother and to keep doing whatever you and Kashi like. Okay? Do we understand each other?”

As simple as this sounds, Keith still finds himself tilting his head and peering at Ryou in confusion. He doesn’t even know what he’s waiting for, here. Maybe for Ryou to decide that he’s broken after all and retract that offer? The longer Keith hesitates, though, the more Ryou’s expression softens. By the time Keith sighs and sets his mug down on the counter, Ryou’s face is knotted up almost as much as it can get when he’s worried about his brother. Or about things and/or people that are vaguely adjacent to his brother and could potentially have even the slightest effect on his brother’s mental health and emotional well-being.

Or, as the case may be, people who are currently sleeping with Ryou’s brother.

But as Ryou opens his mouth again, Keith agrees that he gets what Ryou’s saying. “Sorry, I just…” Keith shakes his head, shoves his hair back off his face when it wilts over his eyes. “Sorry, I’m sorry, I think… This might be one of the things Shiro’s meant, when he’s said I have stuff that I should work on with a counselor or somebody? And Allura’s said so, too. And my advisor. It’s…” Hugging himself and trying to find the words he wants, Keith sighs.

“It’s fine, Keith,” Ryou promises, giving him a small but genuine smile. “Mental health can be difficult. And you’re just starting out with it—”

“Yeah, they’ve all said that too, but?” Keith quirks his shoulders without quite shrugging. “I don’t want to be an asshole to someone else who Shiro loves? Especially not when you’re so important to him? ‘Cause that could hurt him really easily and not like—”

“And _this_ is why I’m really not concerned about you being with him.” The throaty little noise Keith makes gets Ryou to tell him, “I’m not trying to reward you for this bare minimum-level thing. But it means a lot to me that you actually _care_ about my brother’s well-being, and I’m _happy_ that he wants to be with someone like you. Y’know…”

He shrugs. His voice goes oddly soft, especially for Ryou, as he explains, “Somebody _genuine_. Someone _real_.”

Whatever Ryou means by that — and Keith, unfortunately, can think of several possibilities — he doesn’t get the chance to clear it up. Refilling Ryou’s mug for him, Keith silently haggles with himself about word choice and what it is that he _really_ wants to ask. They’ll have a better, more constructive talk if Keith doesn’t run his mouth off without thinking.

Except, while he’s getting more coffee for himself, warm arms snake around Keith’s waist and Shiro nestles up against his back, mumbling what sounds like, _“Baby, it’s Saturday, why do you look so **tense** ”_ into his hair.

Keith wriggles until Shiro lets up enough for him to turn around. He arches an eyebrow at the Blondie tank-top hugging Shiro’s chest. It’s a different, softer shade of pink than his old one, with a different photo of Debbie Harry screenprinted in the center. It looks good on him, naturally. But in addition to his physique, it lets people see the scar on Shiro’s shoulder. Three of the cigarette burns on his chest peek out over the neckline, and yet? As Keith wraps his arms around Shiro’s shoulders and the back of his neck, Shiro doesn’t seem to mind that everybody and their little dogs too could see his scars. He also doesn’t seem to care that Ryou’s arching an eyebrow at him, then at Keith, and for all he doesn’t speak up, smart money says that Ryou’s taking stock of the hickeys that Shiro isn’t bothering to conceal.

Right now, Shiro doesn’t seem to care about anything but being close to Keith, holding Keith in his arms, letting his slightly open lips and freshly shaven jaw linger _right there_ in front of Keith, along with the distinctive, pungent, minty smell of toothpaste.

Fine, leaning up to kiss Shiro right now would be counterproductive to the mission of making breakfast. But he’s grinning playfully at Keith, looking like he knows _exactly_ what he’s doing, and God, Keith can’t help smiling. He eases himself up onto his toes, so he only has to nudge Shiro down a little bit for their mouths to touch. While he’s sucking on Shiro’s lip, Shiro squeezes his waist as if he needs to either remind Keith that he’s here or have Keith pressed up even closer to his chest, or possibly both reasons at once.

Still, Keith doesn’t hold the kiss for too long. Breakfast, after all, isn’t gonna make itself. At least now, Shiro can just tell him what kind of eggs to make. That takes off so much pressure, and it’ll get them going easier.

*** * ***

Hunk sneaks out of Lance’s room while Keith and Shiro are eating. Lance follows not long after, pressing himself up against Hunk’s back while he tries to cook and whining about how it’s too cold in his bed without Hunk there, too. That clinginess makes Keith furrow his brow when, presented with an offer of joining Hunk and Shiro on a jog after breakfast if he’s feeling so lonely, Lance pulls a face like a six-year-old who doesn’t want to eat his vegetables and offers to put the laundry in downstairs instead. He even offers to toss Keith’s stuff in as well, and that must say a lot about how much Lance hates jogging. Granted, it isn’t Keith’s favorite thing to do, either, but he’d take jogging over laundry any day.

Which is probably part of why he’s wearing one of Shiro’s t-shirts and the last pair of clean underwear he has with him.

Although helping with anybody’s laundry wasn’t what Keith planned on doing with his Saturday, he does need to wash the clothing he has with him and Lance refuses to let him chip in any cash toward paying for it. At Lance’s advice, Keith borrows a pair of Shiro’s sweatpants (rolling up the bottoms of the legs and keeping them in place with safety pins) and brings _Knowledge Or Death_ with him when they carry the baskets and detergent down to the basement. According to Lance, he’ll want something to do with himself, hence Lance shoving an old Gameboy and an mp3 player into his sweatshirt’s pockets, along with his phone, his wallet, two sets of earbud headphones, and a ziploc bag of quarters that he, Hunk, and Shiro save up for laundry days.

“It’s easier to wait in the lounge while our loads are in,” he explains in the elevator. “I mean, it’s nicer in the apartment? But you can forget about things more easily up there, and then you might get back downstairs and find that someone dumped your clothes on one of the tables, and Hunk will want to wash everything all over again.”

With this being a Saturday morning, Keith expects that he and Lance might have to perch on a table or slouch against the wall until a machine opens up. That’s how it almost always went when he still lived in student housing and tried to wash his clothes during the weekend. He ends up pleasantly surprised when they find an open machine as soon as they get there, almost like it’s waiting for them. Sure, they can only fit in one of their loads, at first, but it’s better than standing around and waiting like a pair of polecats with a mind to raid a nest when the mama bird’s away.

Once they’ve set themselves and their first load up, Lance sets an alarm on his phone to go off when they’ll need to claim a dryer. It’s weirdly prudent by his standards. Then again, he’s apparently seen a therapist and learned strategies like this for whatever it is that he’s dealing with. Good for Lance. As he leads Keith down the hallway to the lounge, keeping up today’s thing of having good ideas, Lance agrees with Keith’s idea of shuffling their second load into the machine after the first one’s finished. Apparently, he’s done that more than his fair share while they’ve been living here, and back when he and Hunk still lived with their old roommate.

“Ben always thought it was sorta like poaching,” he says, feeding a couple bills into the soda machine in exchange for a Diet Coke. “But Ben also thought that _Hot Fuzz_ wasn’t funny and he sucked at doing laundry anyway. Then, Hunk _can_ do it? But sometimes, his OCD cooks up all these rituals to go along with it, so it takes longer?” He taps on the machine and glances at Keith. “D’you want anything, Mullet? Or d’you just want the bottle so you can return it later? No need for payback, either way.”

“Regular Coke?” Keith shrugs at the perplexed way Lance tilts his head. “I can’t get with the Diet taste like you guys can.”

At least Lance doesn’t argue the point with him. He just gets Keith his drink, and hands it over when Keith’s set the basket down. With a soft sigh, Keith pushes some of his loose fringe back off his face and flops onto one of the mismatched, secondhand-looking sofas.

Around them, the lounge is welcoming enough but pretty threadbare, but at least it doesn’t try to pretend it’s not. Still better than what Keith gets at his own building, though, which is nothing. Having the laundry facility right here is way nicer than trekking a few blocks to an all-night laundromat too, even if the lounge looks like a budget version of what Keith might find in some of the skeevier, more suspect dorms out on campus. Someone painted its walls the single most boring shade of eggshell, and the snack machine is half-empty. There’s a TV sitting on a rickety table against the back-wall, but it looks about as old as Keith, the fluorescent lights overhead show off the dust on its screen, and Keith wouldn’t bet on whether it actually works or not.

There’s time to kill, though, and _Knowledge Or Death_ isn’t gonna read itself. While Lance picks up in a saved file of something called _Pokémon Gold_ , Keith curls his legs up onto his cushion and opens to his last dog-eared page.

All up, Keith’s made it through a pretty good chunk of the book so far, given the week he’s had. He’s getting into the third chapter out of five, and Antok’s digging into some of the gender politics among the Blade of Marmora. As the chapter notes, they allowed women to take part in their activities and rise to positions of prominence within their group — though Antok notes that women were neither completely absent from other political or activist organizations nor limited to exceptional cases like Emma Goldman. What’s set the Blade of Marmora apart, in previous scholarship (according to Antok), is that their use of masks and emphasis on secrecy allowed female members to more fully escape and challenge the constraints that were placed on them due to the gendered expectations societally assigned to them by their sex.

_“However popular, appealing, and easily accessible it is, though, this argument contains several flaws, both glaring and subtle,”_ he asserts, after twenty-some-odd pages of laying out previous arguments and popular points of evidence that other writers have brought up before him. _“One of the most glaring failures of such a reading is how it conflates being stripped of the markers of one’s material identity with liberation. As noted by multiple historians 37 as well as feminist and womanist authors38, queer theorists39, and activist writers40, the models of such identity-stripping too often conform to traits of privileged groups of certain cultures (e.g., whiteness in societies whose foundations rest in white supremacy41, maleness in societies which disenfranchise women, exclusively heterosexual practice — and in particular, certain restrictive performances of heterosexuality42 — in societies that value it more highly than same-sex sexuality43, and so on). With this criticism in mind, one more easily sees the flaws in claiming that the Marmora’s use of masks challenged any of the expectations placed on women in Galran society. Although their use of masks allowed more women to participate and rise to positions of prominence, they did not truly challenge women’s gendered/sexual restrictions, but merely used them in order to further the Marmora’s larger goals of anti-monarchical and anti-imperialist work44.”_

As he goes over it a second time, Keith can’t help arching an eyebrow down at that paragraph. Not that he doubts Antok’s sincerity in making this argument, or that it’s entirely unexpected from him. Furthermore, all Antok’s sources seem like they check out. The ones that Keith’s read in classes before certainly do. But still, the whole thing sounds like something that Kolivan would say. Probably, he would point it out to Antok over lunch in one of their offices, combing over one of Antok’s latest drafts and telling him something like, _“Of course, I respect your preference for a back-to-basics Marxist critical lens, my love, but you might do well to consider applying other approaches to this chapter, lest you miss some of the more crucial aspects of history.”_

Checking endnote 44, sure enough, Keith finds Antok thanking his husband for _“certain insights that informed this argument.”_

But for one thing, that feels like an infinitely more awkward thing to be right about in light of Antok joking about Keith being his and Kolivan’s son. For another, though, Keith has too much book left to cover to get hung up on thinking about his advisor flirting with his husband.

Fortunately, Antok’s argument goes on to other things: _“As Katherine V. Ladnok 45 notes in her history of women’s involvement in the Galran military, this interpretation of Galran history also applies a lens of gendered and sexual politics that vastly differ from those seen in Daibazaal. Although it would be inaccurate to claim that Galran women have ever been liberated — or even that they were ‘more liberated’ than women in other Eastern European countries46 — Galran culture nevertheless has crafted its own varieties of womanhood throughout history, with their own unique constraints, potential avenues for resistance, and intersections with further matrices of societal privilege and oppression—”_

“Madre-cheesing, quiznakking — oh, holy crow, _come on_!”

Furrowing his brow, Keith blinks down the couch at Lance. He’s lying on his back, with his head sticking off the cushion but not quite dangling. Legs stretched over the back of the sofa, he idly bobs his feet up and down like he’s playing with an invisible hacky sack, unconcerned with how his sandals have fallen off. Thanks to the shiny, dark blue booty shorts he’s wearing, Keith can see basically all of Lance’s legs, long and brown and slender, shapely but not terribly muscular. Hunk can probably find all kinds of fun things to do with those legs. Well, _Keith_ certainly could, if he were the one Hunk’s position, and if Hunk ever runs out of his own ideas, Lance will probably come up with an entire goddamn twenty-eight-volume encyclopedia’s worth of notions—

“For the love of _fuck_ , already! How is this even _fair_!”

Blessedly, Lance’s frustrated cussing keeps Keith from going too far down that mental rabbit hole. Mashing his thumbs at the Gameboy, he has his whole, skinny face screwed up in a mix of concentration and barely-restrained rage. He grumbles and snarls at the screen, so absorbed in the game that he doesn’t notice Keith watching him or respond when Keith snaps his fingers to get his attention. Keith’s seen this sort of thing before, sure. But in his experience, it’s usually happened at arcades, or with games where Keith could see the action because one of his foster brothers had to plug the system into the TV so they could play. Also, most of the games Keith’s ever seen this for tended to involve more shooting computer-generated people or zombies, not collections of weird-looking, brightly-colored battle-pets or whatever Pokémon is about.

After a couple minutes, Lance groans without swearing, childproof swearing, or saying anything at all. He rocks his hips up at the air, maybe working a knot out of his back, then lets his head droop off the cushion. While his dark brown hair flops all over, Lance sets the Gameboy on his stomach, then grinds the butts of his palms against his eyes. Dog-earing the page he’s gotten to, Keith gives Lance a moment to calm down, then looks at him again.

“Everything okay?” he says. “You seem, uh… Upset?”

Pulling out one of his earbuds, Lance explains, “It’s Whitney. Her and her quiznakking Miltank.”

Although the only “Whitney” Keith can think of offhand is Whitney Huston, Lance kneads hard at his forehead without any further explanation. A moment of silence, though, and he picks his head up enough to frown at Keith. “Oh, don’t tell me you don’t know who that is, either.”

Keith shrugs and shakes his head. “My Mom’s aunt didn’t like video games. My Dad had, like, _Tetris_ and _Centipede_? And this big, green Gameboy, about the size of a brick. Black-and-white screen, older than me. But we didn’t have the spare cash for anything else. My foster brothers at my first and third families never let me play and told their parents I didn’t like video games. I’d sorta lost interest by my last placement. And the adults in my second placement didn’t have a problem with video games _generally_? But they thought Pokémon were avatars of Satan. One of his most recent tools for wreaking havoc and evil in the world, and shit like that.”

Lance scrunches his face up even more, until it looks like his mouth is collapsing in on itself. “What the cheese?”

“Don’t look for a logical explanation for it, okay? There isn’t one. We’re talking about people who told us that God watched you jerking off or having sex with people and He judged if you did any sexual things He didn’t like. Then, they got mad when I asked why their God sounded like such a pervert.” Keith wrinkles his nose at the snorting noise Lance makes. “…What’s so funny?”

“You are,” Lance says simply, letting his head fall back again. “You sound like you were a wild kid. Like, the most hardcore, mouthy little shit ever. I might’ve actually liked you if we’d met in middle school. Or at least, I wouldn’t have kinda hated you.”

“Maybe,” Keith tells him after thinking for a moment, because all the other responses that come to mind sound rude and Keith doesn’t want to start a fight today. “But you might not’ve. I mean, when I knew Shiro back then? My friends were him and the first girl I had a crush on. That was it. Everyone else pretty much hated me.”

Granted, Keith doesn’t know too much about where Lance comes from or where he’s been in his life. Lance is a youngest sibling and has a big family. He and Hunk have been best friends essentially since forever. One of his sisters or cousins used to burn him punk music CDs (Keith should probably ask, at some point, whether it was a sister or a cousin, because Lance told him but he can’t remember, much less what his family member’s name was). He and Hunk probably aren’t from around here, originally, since Hunk mentioned how they took Shiro to some reunion with Lance’s family last summer and it involved traveling.

Keith supposes that, with what little he knows, he can’t really make any accurate judgments about what Lance was or wasn’t like, back in middle school. Still, something doesn’t really click with the idea of Lance not hating Keith, at that age. Whether he liked punk music or not, Lance seems like the kind of person who wouldn’t really fit in with his school’s popular kids, but maybe kept trying to impress them. Maybe part of him wanted that playground social status because he thought it might help Hunk out somehow, since Hunk was likely a sweetheart who got bullied to his face but more often shit-talked behind his back. Another part of Lance, though, might have wanted to be popular because he wanted attention and probably to feel like he fit in somewhere. If his crush on Hunk was extant back then, he probably wanted to keep people from figuring out, as well, and popularity would at least distract them.

Chewing on his lip, Keith looks up at the ceiling. Given his luck with deduction, assumption, and trying to infer things lately, he’s probably way off-base about who Lance was or wasn’t, back in middle school. For all Keith knows, Lance was a chubby, awkward nerd until he hit some epic growth spurt, cut some foods and non-Diet soda out of his life because of his probably less-than-accurate beliefs about skincare, and got into punk music. Either way, as he tucks his bangs behind his ear and runs his fingers over the hair and the curve a few extra times for good measure, Keith feels like he should probably apologize or something. Lance isn’t being horrible, so there’s no reason to be so defensive.

Instead, he opens his mouth and gets cut off by Lance’s phone blasting, _“Now the party don’t start ’til I walk in! Don’t stop—”_

Lance blushes, fumbles while trying to get his phone out of his sweatshirt pocket. It drops to the floor still playing “Tik Tok” so loudly that anybody else who’s down in the basement can probably hear it too. Flailing, Lance yanks out his headphones, tosses his Gameboy at Keith, and flips himself over onto his stomach. Without getting off the couch. Which seems like it’d be the easier option? Every second the song keeps playing, Lance’s phone vibrates itself even further away from him. But he just sighs, digs his nails into the suspicious-looking mottled carpet, and yanks himself forward.

Keith tilts his head, blinking at the sight as Lance’s knees hit the sofa. Letting out a soft, _“Um?”_ makes Lance flap an arm and insist that he has everything _completely under control, okay, so just chillax, Mullet_. As much as Keith wants to point out that, “completely under control” doesn’t usually mean kicking a couch that doesn’t belong to you, grumbling curses in a mix of at least three languages (even if the only Altean word Lance throws out is his usual favorite, _“quiznak”_ ), or falling short every time you try to grab your phone, he shrugs. As much as he wants to insist that he can do something to help, he rests his chin on his knees, hugs himself around the shins, and smirks at Lance stretching his arm and only managing to knock his phone even further from his grasp.

Something about this inaction still feels pretty rude, but Lance groans when Keith lets slip an, _“Erm? Dude? Really?”_ — so, Keith rolls his eyes and drops it. If Lance doesn’t want to let him chip in, then fine. This is better than getting accosted by members of a flash-mob after trying to make a break for it. For starters, Lance isn’t a random stranger in a tie-dye shirt, grabbing Keith in the middle of the mall. More importantly, watching Lance work is actually entertaining.

After a few more rounds of Kesha’s chorus, the alarm dies down. As the screen goes black, Lance finally gets his hand around his phone. Yawping victoriously, he probably can’t see the skeptical furrow to Keith’s brow, and that’s for the better. It means Keith can give Lance a soft, hesitant bit of golf-clapping without getting called out for staring at the position Lance has contorted himself into. Given that more of Lance’s body is off the couch than not and the way he’s mostly hanging on with his toes hooked behind one of the cushions, most people would probably stare. But most people aren’t here to deal with Lance (hypothetically) getting upset with them for staring at him.

Or, for that matter, to gape as Lance butts his knees against the edge of the couch and pushes himself up into a handstand.

With a contented sigh, Lance pedals at thin air like he’s riding an invisible bike. He doesn’t seem bothered by his t-shirt hitting him in the chin, or by it showing off his stomach and hipbones. Even upside-down, his face unmistakably screams happiness. When he rocks forward and eases himself to the ground, it’s with a level of grace that Keith wouldn’t believe Lance capable of, if he weren’t sitting here and watching it for himself.

Stretching out his shoulders, Lance grins at Keith like he feels exceptionally pleased with himself. “Come on, man. Time for work.”

It ought to be easy enough to leave it at that. But apparently, Keith’s still pulling a face as he gets up and grabs their basket. While he’s adjusting it against his hip and making sure he has the bag of quarters, Lance shrugs and lets his grin fall into a more relaxed smile.

“Used to do gymnastics,” he explains, once more leading them down the hallway. “I mean, I got kicked out of a couple different classes. My parents didn’t know I had ADHD yet, so I wasn’t getting any help with it. Which my parents were mostly okay with, but my teachers thought I was just a disruption.”

Keith sets the basket on one of the laundry room’s tables, waiting for Lance to move their first load. “You still seem like you’re good at it,” he points out. “At the gymnastics, I mean. That was pretty impressive.”

“Thanks.” Once he’s fed the dryer some quarters, Lance leans against it. “Anyway, after we figured out the ADHD thing, I was having more fun teaching myself to do stuff. Made Hunk or my sister Marimar spot me so I wouldn’t land myself in the ER or whatever. Came in handy when I started getting into local and high school theatre stuff — believe it or not, I was totally a theatre kid, even with the punk stuff—”

“Even if you _hadn’t_ already told me that, I wouldn’t find that hard to believe at all.” Once he caps up the detergent again, Keith motions for Lance to hand him the bag of quarters. “No offense, but you _do_ come on strong. And kinda come off like somebody who’s… Y’know…?”

“Extra enough to be a theatre kid?”

“I was trying to find a _better_ way to say it?” Keith huffs as the washing machine beeps, its buttons refusing to make this process straightforward. “But yeah, basically. I could totally see you as Puck in _A Midsummer’s Night’s Dream_. Flipping around stage, getting so super-into the role that your cast-mates start getting scared. Or, like, Jack from _Into the Woods_? Maybe there wouldn’t be any backflips, but you could totally have enough fun with that role—”

Lance cuts Keith off with an indecipherable, snorting noise. But he’s grinning again and trying not to snicker when Keith looks at him.

“I was _exactly_ like that when I played Puck one summer,” he says. “I loved _everything_ about that part. Like, from the blocking to the makeup to how I got all the best speeches in the play. Hunk helped do tech for that show. He wound up apologizing for me and my antics so much, I thought he was gonna scream. But our director loved it and kept telling everybody to match _my_ level of enthusiasm… Which didn’t really make me any friends, during our run. But at least I knew how to make it up to Hunk, so the one who _really_ mattered didn’t stay pissed off at me for long.”

He shrugs and keeps talking as they head back toward the lounge. “I’ve played Jack before, too. Sophomore year of high school was the first time. Then, there was a community theatre production of it around here, like, right around when we first met Shiro. I didn’t get into any of the fall-semester shows on campus, so I went out for it… Ulaz was a co-director for that one? Which I thought was kinda weird, since he had a few patients attached to it, not just me and Hunk, but he said that it was okay…”

Although Lance smiles like he’s expecting Keith to chime in, Keith flops back onto the couch with a feeling like his throat’s been clogged up and frozen over. He sighs, dragging his fingers through his bangs and letting his head slump back onto the couch. He doesn’t feel like he knows what to say, or what he even _can_ say, right now. But he also doesn’t want to leave Lance hanging for too long when they’re having an actual decent conversation with each other. Especially considering how Lance starts looking at him, with his mouth all twisted up in a way that’s probably meant to seem sensitive and friendly. As if he’s genuinely concerned about how Keith’s doing and wants Keith to trust him.

Despite all the logical, rational explanations that he comes up with, though, every inch of Keith’s body screams that Lance is pitying him again. Lance _knows_ that Keith hates being pitied, but he’s doing it anyway. Except he probably isn’t. Most likely, that’s all in Keith’s head, and yet? He can’t shake off the burning, gut-knotting outrage that Lance would even have the _audacity_ —

“Sorry,” Keith makes himself spit out, cutting off his own thoughts and pinching the bridge of his nose. “Just, Shiro used to love _Into the Woods_ —”

“Yeah, I know.” Lance beams. “Our show-weeks were right after Thanksgiving. He came almost every night and I thought I was gonna die.” Which sounds great, but Lance’s face falls. “Except Ryou… Didn’t exactly take his brother’s head off for coming to opening night? But it was a Friday show and Shiro went to see us instead of going to his meeting, and then when he got home kinda late, I guess Ryou _really_ wasn’t happy about it?”

“I don’t blame him. I mean, it’s not your fault, since you probably didn’t know that he was skipping?” Keith waits for Lance to agree that he didn’t, then blows his bangs off of his face. “But… Cutting his meetings like that is something I probably would’ve enabled? Like, ‘You’ve already gone to rehab, you’ve got a therapist, why do you really _need_ to go sit around with other junkies and go on at each other about how much y’all hate being sober or whatever it is you talk about at them’? Which…”

Hugging himself, Keith sighs. “Which means that Ryou had good reason to be upset. Which is sort of a big thing for me to say? But the past six weeks, and especially the parts that have happened since I came to yell at you guys? Have been this long, humiliating slog through learning that apparently, I have some pretty bad and unsustainable opinions about how to do that mental health thing.”

“Well, yeah, okay, fair enough… And Shirito’s learned better about this kinda stuff, by now, and he had to learn a lot of it the hard way, too…” Sounding like he wants to heave his own sigh but feels like he can’t let himself, Lance scrubs a hand over the back of his neck. “But you needing to learn doesn’t mean you couldn’t’ve helped him in different ways. Or that Shiro wouldn’t have wanted you around, back then—”

“He kinda would have. I mean, he also wouldn’t have, on some level? But when we talked about it back on my birthday, he said he would’ve tried to push me away so I’d go have a life without him. And like, the thing is…” Well, really, there are several things. But as Keith shuts his eyes, he only tries to focus on one of them in particular. “I meant what I told him about how I’ll fight for him? For _us_? But then part of me still feels like…”

Keith shrugs, wonders if there’s any way he can say this next part without sounding like more of a head-case than Lance already knows. He blinks at the ceiling, but since it decides not to have any useful answers for him, Keith says, “I dunno. Part of me feels like it’s better I didn’t know he was out here ’til I yelled at you guys. If I’d known, I could’ve gone right back to enabling Shiro instead of really helping him, and if I did that, then I could’ve _seriously_ hurt him—”

“But you might _not_ have,” Lance points out, batting a bare foot against Keith’s knee. “And not to shut you down like an asshole? Because I think your feelings are fair and stuff, but also that you aren’t exactly _right_ — but _I’m_ not the person you should really be talking to about that. That guy is, like… Unfairly beautiful and he could probably bench-press both of us—”

“Not at the same time.” For all Keith means to leave it at that, he wilts when Lance kicks his thigh and jostles his book. “Look, you’re right. I need to talk to Shiro about it. But it’s not like I’ve been holding out on this, okay? It just started coming up right now, because we were talking about him skipping to see your show.”

Pausing, he curls his legs up on the couch, lets _Knowledge or Death_ topple into his stomach. “My first thought was actually… Worrying that the Big Bad Wolf could’ve reminded him of Maurice, and then he might’ve tried to pretend that wasn’t really happening—”

“Yeah, that happened, too. I mean, we’d only just met, so I didn’t hear about it, or anything about Maurice at all, until way later. But either way…” Huffing, Lance scoots down the sofa and elbows at Keith’s side. He’s gentle about it, though, and he wears a smile that all but begs Keith to smile back. “That’s all in the past, right? You’re the here and now. And I mean, he’s totally head over feet for you, and happy to have you back in his life — probably even happier than he’s said, but it’s kind of a big deal for him to say anything outright in the first place—”

“It’s a _huge_ deal,” Keith agrees, without much in the way of energy or feeling. Which should probably concern him, but even that feels like it’d be asking for a lot. “I’m way happier that he promised not to make me guess when he feels like things are getting bad for him again—”

“But that’s not the point I wanted to make right now,” Lance cuts in. “It’s a fair point, sure! But it’s not _my_ fair point.”

There’s an eager, impatient glint behind his smile now, and it only gets brighter when Keith furrows his brow. He quirks his shoulders and lets his eyebrows jump up, because he has no idea what Lance’s alleged point might be after all — and yet, Lance doesn’t get hung up on that. If anything, the way he bounces on his knees seems _excited_ about something going on here. As he digs around in his sweatshirt’s pockets, Lance can’t keep himself from grinning so broadly, it looks like he’d split his own lips, if they weren’t glimmering with a sheen of chapstick and no doubt impeccably moisturized. When he curls Keith’s hand around something without letting him look at it first, he flashes every single one of his shiny, perfect teeth.

As soon as Lance pulls his hands back, Keith blinks down at what Lance gave him: the mp3 player he brought down — small and black, with a matte finish, a screen that’s currently gone dark, and white text labeling all its buttons — and the set of earbuds that he hasn’t been using. They’re black too, with some scattered bits of purple decoration.

“I’m pretty sure we’ve got a spare charger for it up in the apartment, if you need it,” Lance says.

“That’s really nice of you. And thanks, it… Y’know, it means a lot? But…” Keith looks up at Lance and barely manages to fight off the sigh that’s building in his chest. “I don’t have my own computer, remember? I can’t put anything on this.”

“You don’t need to, man!” Lance brightens even further, which shouldn’t be humanly possible. “I loaded it last night before Hunk dragged me to bed. You’ve got our new album before _literally_ anybody else, even Ryou hasn’t heard the whole thing yet. There’s everything we’ve recorded together. Like, even some demos and stuff we haven’t put on Bandcamp and most of our live covers. Our ‘Genie In A Bottle’ from our last show is there. There’s something like three different versions of ‘Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go’ ‘cause Hunk and Shiro love that song, and Pidge loves getting more time to show off her mad keyboard skills. And Plaxum, my ex-girlfriend? You probably saw her at the record store, she’s the babe-alicious land-mermaid with the pigtails and the belly-ring? See, she bootlegs pretty much all our shows and it’s like we—”

Lance cuts himself off with a gasp, holding up a hand to indicate that he’s not done yet.

Once he has his breath back, he bounces on his knees again and resumes explaining: “So, then there’s Shiro’s old solo stuff, too? I don’t think I have all of it… I definitely didn’t have any of his old demos, but I put on everything that Hunk and I had on our hard drives. I tossed on _American Idiot_ and _Nimrod_ for you. Then I got _Goths_ , the Mountain Goats album you haven’t heard yet? Then, I had to pick and choose from their stuff, ‘cause that thing has, and I wanted you to have room for other stuff if you wanted it? So I went with _Tallahassee_ , _Heretic Pride_ , and _The Sunset Tree_. I threw on _Transcendental Youth_ ‘cause I like it, and some David Bowie. Some Leonard Cohen, some Fleetwood Mac, some Lady Gaga and some Beyoncé, a couple of cool movie soundtracks? Like, _Pulp Fiction_ and the _Guardians of the Galaxy_ flicks. There are some Disney movie songs on there ‘cause who’s gonna argue with the classics, right? And some Bonnie Tyler, but just ‘Total Eclipse of the Heart’ and ‘Holding Out For A Hero’ ‘cause Shiro mentioned you like the original better than the version from _Shrek_. Then, Hunk said to put on some Britney and some Salt-N-Pepa, and he wouldn’t tell me _why_ , but I did.”

Briefly, Keith considers telling Lance why Hunk would suggest that. But Lance is on a roll, so he decides against it.

“So, then I put on some Kesha because I can’t not, okay? Some of her old stuff, but I cherry-picked that so I could give you all of _Rainbow_ — oh.” He blinks at Keith’s perplexed expression, but doesn’t seem to let his energy flag. “That’s her new album from this year. It’s really good, okay? And I’m not just saying that ‘cause I love me some Kesha Rose. I’d say you should listen to the whole thing in order first, but if you want specific songs that you might like better? ‘Praying’ was her first single for a reason and it’s good to start with. You might like ‘Godzilla,’ and ‘Spaceship’ kinda made me think about you and Shiro last night — oh! And she has your girl Dolly do a duet cover of, ‘Old Flames Can’t Hold A Candle To You’—”

Keith snorts. His lips quiver, but even so, he finds himself smiling while Lance nods knowingly.

“Thought you’d like that, Mullet,” he says. “I didn’t really have a lot of Dolly’s own stuff or Johnny Cash to put on, and Hunk only had so much, but I gave you whatever we had. Shiro has more, but I couldn’t get at his stuff since it was in his room, and the door was closed, and Hunk was like, ‘Dude, if they aren’t asleep, then they’re probably having sex, let’s just leave them alone and let them be happy’—”

“Smart man.” Keith chuckles. “I don’t think Shiro would’ve liked you two watching him ride me like he’s got a horse to save—”

“Why? We already know he likes bottoming. And that you’ve topped him before—”

“I meant more that he isn’t really an exhibitionist?” Keith furrows his brow. “Like, we blew each other in bars before, in Chicago? But whenever we did, it was either because he was so out of his head that he didn’t care if someone caught him with my dick in his mouth… Or because I wanted to make him happy and whined like a brat about how it was my turn to suck _him_ off. Also, he would’ve felt awkward over the two of you watching us fuck. Like, there’s a difference between you guys knowing that he bottoms sometimes, and two of his best friends watching him have sex.”

For a moment, all Lance does is blink at Keith and tilt his head as if he’s watching a dog attempt to tap-dance.

“…Oh,” he finally says. “Okay, yeah, point taken.”

Yet, he slumps against the sofa’s cushion and jumps right back in without missing a beat: “Anyway, though? I’ve known Shiro likes bottoming since, like, right after I met him. I don’t remember _why_ we were talking about that ‘Boy Is A Bottom’ song? But it came up when he was in a better mood than usual and he was all, ‘God, that song is so me.’ Oh, it’s on the mp3 player, too. And some George Michael, since he’s Shiro’s favorite, so I thought maybe he comes on and you think about your boy? And I didn’t put ‘Save A Horse, Ride A Cowboy’ on there, but if you want, I _can_ , when we get back upstairs?”

“I might need to think about it, but I might want—”

“Okay, cool,” Lance blurts out like it’s literally killing him to hold back one more thing. Drumming on his knees, he gives Keith a grin that’s halfway manic. “And, and, and. I almost waited, okay, so I could ask what your favorite Fall Out Boy albums are? But then I couldn’t wait, and I was like, ‘Well, I already cherry-picked from the Mountain Goats and I’ve got more space here.’ So I put on everything I had. Which, uh… Is _almost_ everything of theirs? But, but, but, _but_!”

He edges even closer and squeezes Keith’s knee. “There’s one song of theirs. It’s still pretty much brand new, they just dropped it in September. I dunno if you’ve heard it or not—”

“I didn’t know they’d put out any new music period,” Keith tells him, flatly.

For a moment, Lance’s face falls, into an expression that looks like he’s genuinely sad for Keith instead of pitying him. But he shakes himself out of it quickly enough and jostles Keith’s knee. “Anyway, you _need_ to listen to it, okay? It’s called ‘The Last Of The Real Ones,’ it’s amazing. And I know Shiro loving it doesn’t mean that you will? But he really loves it, and he actually thinks he’s being subtle about why—”

“If you’re saying he loves it because it makes him think of me?” Keith arches an eyebrow, waits for Lance to agree or not.

Which only gives Lance the opportunity to jump back in, saying, “What really matters is that it’s a good song and I think you’ll like it. And okay, after last call at the bar last night? Pidge said you were only talking about an mp3 player with _our_ stuff on it. But I had a couple spares and Hunk had some extra headphones, and you _don’t_ have one, and you’ve been missing all kinds of music, so I…”

Lance shrugs. Smiles. “I thought it’d be nice to hook you up with some tunes?”

“It is, Lance. Really. This is so nice of you, it just… Unexpected, but really nice…”

Returning Lance’s smile, Keith about chokes on the realization that he means it. Not only the smile, either, but also his agreement about how nice this gift is. His whole chest flushes warm as he looks at Lance, not with embarrassment but with something far less unpleasant. Something that Keith’s caught himself feeling far more often, recently — especially with Shiro, but not exclusively — but that he still doesn’t experience enough for it to feel like something that comes to him naturally. No matter how much it feels like he’s being wrapped up in a really good hug, one that’s comfortable and firm, with someone safe wrapping their arms around him, the sensation still comes to Keith an uneasy prickle up the back of his neck, reminding him that he doesn’t usually feel this way.

On the other hand, though, the rush brings with it a sudden awareness that Keith’s normal state of being is _not_ so toasty. Or so nice. Watching Lance waggle his eyebrows, expectantly but without pushing too hard, Keith laughs but it feels like someone’s punched him in the stomach. Like something’s clawing up his insides and keeping him held together with rusty nails. Like there’s a monster living in a hole inside his chest, sucking the warmth and the _nice_ feelings right out of him as soon as Keith dares to let himself appreciate them.

But instead of letting himself run with those feelings, he curls his free hand around the knee that Lance isn’t holding on to. Squeezing it, Keith makes himself take a few long, slow breaths. They don’t entirely shake off the feeling that something inside of him is broken and going terribly, horribly wrong. They do, however, remind Keith that Lance isn’t doing anything to make him feel this way, so it wouldn’t be right for Keith to take the feelings out on him.

Trying to smile as earnestly as he can, Keith meets Lance’s eyes. “Thanks for this, man. It means a lot to me. Especially having you guys’ music and Shiro’s solo stuff. That’s… I never had an mp3 player with his stuff in Chicago. Yeah, I got to watch him practice, but…”

Keith sighs. “After I lost him back then, there’d be times — a _lot_ of times — when I just wanted to listen to one of his old songs again. To hear him sing again. But watching the videos on his old Youtube channel hurt too much. Especially the ones toward the end, y’know… Closer to when Maurice took him? Hearing him sing could hurt, too, but it was easier to get any kind of comfort if I didn’t have to look at his videos and actually see him looking like such a wreck. Plus, I mean…” He quirks his shoulders. “Unless I had a wifi connection, watching his videos would drive my data through the roof. Couldn’t afford it.”

But that’s starting to get depressing, so Keith forces himself to smile and look Lance in the eye again. “Just… thank you for this,” Keith says. “I’ll take good care of the player. And I don’t think I can say this enough, so? Thank you.”

Which sounds like pretty good, to Keith. Not even simply by his standards, either. If you ask him, this kind of a thank you would be outstanding coming from anybody, not just whatever specific kind of mess Keith is.

But Lance furrows his brow and frowns. “Don’t… Don’t you have something else to say to me?”

Befuddled, Keith wrinkles his nose. “Thank you very much?” he guesses, which only makes Lance shake his head. “Uh… I’m sorry? Shiro and I tried not to startle you and Hunk last night. I mean, we didn’t notice you two were making out in the same alley until Hunk smacked the dumpster—”

“ _What_?!” Lance squawks, blushing scarlet. “You guys… You saw that, did you hear anything—”

“Well, I dunno about Shiro, but I only heard Hunk smacking the dumpster?” This wasn’t the right guess, but now that Lance is riled up, Keith has to take responsibility for that. Pushing his bangs off his face again, he says, “Look, we thought we were alone. As soon as we noticed you guys, we split and came back here and did what comes naturally. But you don’t have to be ashamed or anything, and Hunk deserves better than—”

“I don’t care that you _saw_ us making out, Mullet!” Which would sound more convincing if Lance weren’t quickly turning scarlet. But slouching in on himself, he clarifies, “I care that you saw us when I _know_ my make-out game wasn’t at its best. I was all like… Desperate and sloppy and whiny and clingy. And if we’re gonna play the, ‘Who deserves what or doesn’t’ game, then Hunk deserves my A+ make-out game as often as possible, and I _know_ I didn’t give him that last night.”

Keith shrugs. “I dunno, I thought he seemed pretty into it? I forget _what_ Shiro and I said exactly, but I think it was something like, ‘Oh, cool, those two are working things out for themselves after all. We should let them have as much privacy as is possible, given that they’re still making out in a grungy alleyway.’”

“ _Anyway_ ,” Lance drawls. Unable to meet Keith’s eye, he pushes at Keith’s shoulder instead. “You don’t have _anything_ else to say to me? About you asking whether or not Shiro put me up to doing this nice thing for you?”

Keith shakes his head. “If he’d put you up to it, he could’ve just told you what my favorite Fall Out Boy albums are. At least, everything up to _Save Rock And Roll_. They first dropped that three days before Maurice took him. Outside of work, it was the only thing we listened to. And besides?” He gently elbows Lance. “You put on this façade of a guy who’s kind of an asshole? But you’re not as much of a jerk as you want people to think.”

“Sounds like a lot of _projection_ to me.” Lance huffs. Crossing his arms over his chest, he turns to sit on the sofa like a normal person and burrows back into the cushions. “Especially sounds like that when it’s coming outta _your_ mouth, Mr. ‘I’m so used to everybody hating me and leaving me. That’s why I lash out and act like such a brooding weirdo loner antihero who hates everybody, not the sensitive, socially isolated, would-be crusader weirdo I really am. And why I assumed Shiro would never love me back for so long.’”

Keith rolls his eyes. “See, that sounds like _you_ projecting. Because you act like you think you’re suave and cool and tough, like you’re totally hot shit and expect to be adored on demand? When, really, on the inside, yeah, you’re kinda entitled? But you’re sensitive, too. And you don’t feel like you’re good enough for your friends because you like doing a little bit of everything. Also, the things you’re best at seem to be tying things together, using your social skills, and getting people to access parts of themselves they might not always be good at accessing. Or the parts they might not really appreciate about themselves. For better and for worse.”

Which is more than Keith wants to say on the subject, but Lance is still looking so confused and crestfallen. So, Keith sighs and tells him, “You’re like Han Solo, okay? You act like a smug, stupid, swaggering asshole. You know you aren’t some Force-prodigy like Luke or a badass diplomat and commander like Leia. Hell, Han oversells himself, he doesn’t even live up to his own hype half the time. But you’re still clever, resourceful, loyal, and good with people, when you aren’t using your social skills to get yourself in trouble, instead.”

But God, Keith needs to get off of this analogy before Lance probably turns out to know more about _Star Wars_ than he does. Nudging at Lance’s shoulder again, Keith adds, “Also? The twins and the rebel alliance wouldn’t have taken down the Empire without Han. Just like how _your_ songs wouldn’t sound the same without your bass-lines. And like how I’m pretty sure you getting to be Shiro’s friend has helped him more than you probably realize and more than he lets on. So, y’know… Thanks for that, too. And for the music. But mostly for helping someone I love so much.”

Keith smiles at him again. “You’re a good friend, Lance.”

“Okay, hey, hold up a second,” Lance snaps, crinkling up his face and sounding more perplexed than ever. “Did I hallucinate for a couple minutes just now? Or did you seriously admit to _not_ completely hating me?”

“I do not completely hate you.” Keith nods, and smirks when Lance nudges at his shoulder. “Mind you? You are still a fucking handful—”

“Yeah, well, so are you. But I guess that Shiro would…” Lance trails off, as if he’s realizing that whatever he wants to say might not be the best idea after all. “Look, for what it’s worth or whatever? Having you back in his life? That’s made Shiro happier than pretty much anything I’ve ever seen, which I’m in favor of. And I don’t completely hate you, either.”

“Thanks, Lance.” Which could probably cap off this bonding moment fine enough on its own. But Lance still looks kind of sullen, so maybe a distraction will help. Patting Lance’s leg, Keith tells him, “So, who’s Whitney and why is she so much trouble for you? I don’t really know anything about Pokémon, but… Hey, maybe I can help?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aforementioned Twinganes-flavored backstory angst can be found over at **“[nothing to keep me from the storm (today could be your day)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/13338717)”** — for anyone who’s in the mood to see Shiro struggling with some of the earlier parts of his recovery and Ryou trying to pull him back while he’s off the wagon and having a meltdown.
> 
> Much like “you’d kill me if you could stand the sight of blood” before it, it isn’t necessary reading so much as something that I just really wanted to write, so I did. It’s flavor, more than anything else. If you _do_ want to go read it, then please, please, PLEASE heed the tags on it. There aren’t any applicable Archive warnings, but it’s still got some pretty potentially triggering parts to it, so take care of yourselves first and foremost. ♡


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * It is no exaggeration when I say that I have been looking forward to the bit with Keith and Zethrid for months. It was one of the earliest long-term scenes that I got an idea for (which happened around 10th September, 2017), and while it has changed somewhat from its earlier drafts, it still makes me unreasonably happy to have my son (Keith) and my wife in a scene together.  
> 
>   * Lotor is trying. Lotor is finally, _finally_ , _**finally**_ trying. That’s about all I have to say for him, right now, but…… Well, he’s trying. An effort has been made.  
> 
>   * If you see what I did there in this chapter, you should go have a cookie or ten. Or whatever your favorite thing to treat yourself with is. Because it’s definitely part of the next installment of this story and it’s going to be A Lot (……I hope. At least, the drafts I’ve been working on have been A Lot for me so far) — but it’s not going to get resolved in chapter 24. Since I’m giving you foreshadowing that I feel is kind of cruel right at the end of this particular installment, I feel like telling you to go treat yourself to something nice is the least I can do. ♡  
> 
>   * Even if you don’t see what I did there, you should go treat yourself to something nice. You deserve it. ♡  
> 
>   * The idea of Antok being part-Balmeran was not mine originally. I got the idea from the version of Antok in **[this really cute Antok/Kolivan fanart by @xblackpaladin on tumblr](https://xblackpaladin.tumblr.com/post/161586438625/this-started-as-a-joke-on-bom-server-abt-how-i)** , and I really liked it, so I brought it here. Cool, cool, cool.  
> 
>   * ……I feel like I had something else that I wanted to say here, but now I can’t remember what it was supposed to be.
> 


Trying to help Lance with his Pokémon game gets them approximately nowhere, but it could be worse. By the time they’re back in the apartment and folding the laundry, Keith’s slipped right into listening to music on the mp3 player.

Shiro provides the only reason why that doesn’t last. True, Keith still appreciates Lance’s gesture and having the music immediately on-hand. In addition to periodically nestling up to Keith’s side to ask how his reading’s going and chugging hot tea like they might run out if he doesn’t get his hands on it _now_ , Shiro pulls out his acoustic guitar. He says that he’s practicing to prep for the show tonight, and during one round out in the common room, Lance invites himself along to rehearse his bass-lines, too.

But when Lance begs off, claiming that he doesn’t want to get himself too worked up on a show-night, Shiro keeps playing. He takes his breaks every few songs to get more tea or water, play with his squishy stress-ball, and kiss Keith’s forehead. Amidst the pieces he’s had a hand in writing, Shiro also throws in some of his favorite warmup and cool-down songs by other artists. “Boulevard Of Broken Dreams” makes Ryou arch an eyebrow once he recognizes the tune, but Shiro would be singing if he meant the song as anything but an easy way to ease into a break. Anyway, he follows it with “Bad Moon Rising,” which he does decide to sing. That summons Hunk and Lance from the latter’s room and ends with everyone, even Ryou, joining in.

Which is nice, it really is. Keith laughs as much as anybody when the song is over. He’s even sad to see Ryou go, when lunch finishes up and he decides to go make sure his roommate hasn’t talked their work-friend into anything too ridiculous without him there to rein them in. Fortunately, Pidge and Rover come downstairs not fifteen minutes after Ryou promises he’ll make it to the show and makes his exit. She’s right on time to join her bandmates in singing “Blitzkrieg Bop” — with an admittedly odd juxtaposition between the acoustic lead guitar and Lance using an amp for his bass — after which, Shiro decides it’s time for him another break.

While he’s taking Rover outside, Keith expects to sit right here on the sofa, with his book and his coffee, doing nothing that should be of interest to anybody but himself. The first interruption to the plan comes in the form of a text from Allura:

_“Something came for you. Do you want me to bring it tonight or save it for Monday?”_

Keith can guess what that means, but in case he’s wrong, he has to ask, _“Meaning results from the DNA test? Did you pay extra to rush them?”_

Allura’s ellipses flicker in and out a few times before she sends back, _“I did not. But yes, they did arrive earlier than I expected.”_

Keith considers it for a moment before deciding, _“Save them for Monday. I’ll obsess about them if you bring them tonight. Aside from probably ruining the show for me, it might make Shiro worry that we had sex and now I’m pulling away from him again or something.”_

_“Well, we wouldn’t want that,”_ she sends, accompanied by the emoji like a winking smiley face. _“Take care, unelinde. I’ll see you tonight ❤️”_

That ought to be the end of the distractions. Except, as Keith pockets his phone, he takes note of Lance. Not only is he sitting on the coffee-table, he’s also watching Keith with an intensity that seems afraid of missing something. It might be mildly creepy if Lance were the only one doing it. But Hunk peers at Keith from the armchair while Pidge flops down, puts her head in Keith’s lap, and blinks up at him with a smirk that isn’t trying too hard to hide its mischievous edge. Having all three of them looking at him makes this situation downright unsettling. Keith has only rarely been so grateful for his relative lack of a gag reflex, before.

“I’m not going to do a trick if you wait long enough,” he says flatly, putting _Knowledge Or Death_ down by the lamp and his coffee. “And I don’t think I have any Shiro-related anything left for y’all to interrogate me about—”

“Are you gonna sing him Dolly Parton at the wedding reception or switch things up a little?” Pidge grins. “You could probably do ‘I Just Died In Your Arms Tonight’ pretty well. And it’d totally appeal to how much he loves tacky eighties pop—”

“Nobody is getting married—”

“Well, yeah, not _yet_ ,” drawls Hunk. “But don’t rule anything out—”

“I’m _not_ ruling anything out! But… Come on. We’ve said, ‘I love you.’ We’ve made out. We have had sex _once_ — and that was our first time doing it while we’re both sober and on the same page about our feelings for each other. We’re not rushing off to elope or anything.” Keith huffs. A thought occurs, and before he can stop himself, he adds, “And if you guys are trying to turn this into a, ‘Dear Penthouse Forum’ thing? You can knock it off. I’m not kissing and telling. Not unless you pay me and get Allura on speaker-phone.”

“Okay,” Lance says with a shrug. “Give me your phone and I’ll call her. Pidge, go get him one of our shirts.”

“That’s not what I meant!” As his face flushes hot, Keith muffles a groan behind his hand. “Look, what d’you guys want?”

“To talk to you, spend time with you, and generally remind you that we’re here and care about you,” says Pidge. “Y’know, friend things. Reminding you that we can be your friends, too, and not just Shiro’s. Hunk seemed to think we should be extra-proactive about this.”

“That is not _exactly_ what I said…” Grinning bashfully, Hunk scratches at the back of his neck. “I said that we should try to gently remind you of this friendship stuff? ‘Cause Allura seemed great last night—”

“She didn’t _seem_ great,” Keith huffs. “She _is_ great.”

“Nobody’s saying that she isn’t, Mullet!” Although Lance holds up his hands in mock-surrender, he’s giving Keith a good glimpse of his irritatingly perfect teeth again, making Keith feel like he is taking this the opposite of seriously. But also like Lance might be trying too hard to come off that way. “We’re just saying that you still seem kinda light in the friend department and we would like to help you recitative that.”

“ _Rectify_ that,” Pidge corrects him. “Recitative is the thing in opera when you’re basically singing normal dialogue—”

“I know that, Pidge! I was making a _joke_?!” Lance grins at Keith in a way that makes him want to believe that Lance isn’t completely full of shit about this so-called joke. He even might be; Keith admittedly can’t tell. “So, like we were saying before she tried to be the vocabulary police? What about it, Mullet? You wanna join a gang?”

If it looked like he wanted to make fun of Keith, that’d be one thing. It wouldn’t be a good thing, but it’d make more sense.

Instead, Lance’s smile looks so earnest that Keith’s stomach twists with guilt over having any doubts about what Lance might or might not mean by this. There’s probably no good reason for Keith to be thinking like this. None that’s going on in this specific situation.

Trying not to frown too much, Keith glances at the wall behind Lance, then at all the corners he can spot. He only barely keeps himself from checking over his shoulder for a hidden camera because he realizes what he’s doing. His eyes stop on Hunk, who’s starting to get that slightly dulled, unimpressed look of his as he struggles to keep up his smile. Down in Keith’s lap, Pidge blinks up at him as if she’s trying to puzzle out what he’s thinking, racking her brain to pick out any signs he might be giving off and to pick apart what they might mean. Back on the coffee-table, Lance keeps beaming like he wants to be a human ray of sunshine when he grows up.

Damn him for that, too, because his lips dig deep dimples into his skinny cheeks, which are both admittedly cute and incredibly distracting.

Grasping for something he can say to this, Keith almost moves to curl a knee up to his chest. Dimly, he wonders if the other three _planned_ to have Pidge flop in his lap specifically to keep him from bolting and/or putting his legs up as a barrier between the four of them.

In lieu of getting any answers to that question — in lieu of asking it at all because he _knows_ it would be fucking rude — he slumps onto an elbow, propping it up on the armrest. With a sigh, he drags his fingers through his hair, then lets his bangs flop over his face again so he has a free excuse to keep pushing it back. Even knowing that he needs to say something before the silence gets too awkward, Keith feels like he can only manage fussing with his hair. His lungs keep working. Breath comes in here, breath slips back out there, Keith doesn’t feel the tight, choking feeling like he has vipers and smoke clenching themselves around the inside of his chest. He could probably reach his voice, if he would just expend the effort like an emotionally healthy person would.

The problem is, Keith has no idea how much effort he needs to do that, and it might be a lot.

It’s probably stupid to sit here, playing with his fringe in silence when he knows that Hunk, Lance, and Pidge are waiting on a response. It’s almost definitely inconsiderate and rude to go so quiet when, as the _rational_ part of Keith’s brain reminds him, they’re most likely only trying to be nice. But it’s keeping him from making any accusations that might be even worse, or at least he wouldn’t feel good about making them. Not against people who are actually making an effort with him, and especially not when they’re so important to Shiro.

“Uh, not that I know exactly what’s going on in your head right now, but…” Gently, Hunk cuts in and saves Keith from getting too lost in his own thoughts. “There’s really no untoward subtext or anything going on here, dude. Hand to God, I promise,” he says. “We want to be friends—”

“I’d like that, too,” Keith bursts out before he can think about it too much. “I just…”

“Mullet,” Lance sighs. “If the next words out of your mouth have anything to do with who deserves or doesn’t—”

“They weren’t _going_ to.” Keith rolls his eyes, but he slouches in the face of Lance’s pointedly, skeptically arched eyebrow. “Okay, fair enough: I’ve earned that kind of reaction. But I really _wasn’t_ thinking, like…” A deep breath and a huff as Keith turns over some of his options for how to say this. “It’s not about deserving, not at the moment? I’ll probably get there later, I did it with Shiro, I did it with Allura, I’m probably gonna do it with you guys, too—”

“It isn’t like we don’t know how to deal with that,” Pidge points out. “Or like we can’t learn what to do with you specifically. We all look out for each other, that’s part of how this works.”

“And I get that, okay, like… Rationally. Logically. In the abstract, but…” Shrugging, Keith supposes, “It’s not you guys; it’s me. Which I know, sounds like a shitty breakup line and I _really_ don’t want it to, but?”

Jesus God, this unexpected social situation is going even worse than usual for Keith. Or at the very least, it feels that way. Feels like he has something worming around underneath his skin, wriggling through his muscles and his veins, trying to dig its way down to his bones and empty him from the inside out. Feels like he should burrow back into the sofa, because Hunk and Lance and Pidge are finally seeing that he is broken, and Keith is slowly killing anything they’re saying about wanting to be his friends. Knowing that Hunk, Lance, and Pidge probably don’t mean any of this badly makes Keith feel like his throat’s been blocked up, besides.

No matter how he feels, though, Keith definitely _will_ kill that chance if he doesn’t say anything. He rubs at the bridge of his nose before pushing his bangs back again. This time, he looks up and holds the fringe in place, so his face stays more visible to the others. To his maybe-friends.

“If I freeze up and prickle, just? Please don’t feel _too_ bad about it?” _They probably won’t. Maybe over each other and over Shiro, but why would they do feel like that over you_ — “If you wanna listen to Shiro about it? He thinks I get overwhelmed by people caring about me because I’m not used to things like…”

Keith gesticulates vaguely, waving his free hand in front of his face. “…D’you guys mind me using a morbid metaphor? And if I do, will you please not take on of the implications personally?”

“Hard to promise anything if we don’t know what you’re talking about,” says Pidge.

“…Fair.” But rather than wait for any potential derailments, Keith looks to Hunk. “Big Man, you know how to cook a frog? Like, the old wisdom about how you boil one, I mean?”

Hunk nods without brightening up. “Yeah, you add heat slowly. Too much, too soon, and the little guy jumps right out—”

“Exactly.” Keith tries to smile because it’s good that they seem to understand each other, but it dies off in the face of Hunk’s furrowed brow and the way that his eyes widen in concern. “Like, yes, it’s about killing a frog so you can eat it. That’s what I didn’t want you guys to take personally, ‘cause I _don’t_ feel like friendship with y’all is deadly and I _do_ want it, it’s just like? No other explanation really came to mind, and I just… I kinda understand how the frog might feel? Except I don’t _really_ think that you guys are trying anything… But other people _have_ before, and I know it’s not right to hold that against you, but…”

Keith shrugs. He has no idea what else to do, and sitting still is not an option. “If I freeze up or I scare easy? It’s not because of you,” he says softly. “It’s because of me, and because of a lot of shit with me that I don’t always understand. And right now, in the friends department? It’s pretty much Allura. Shiro. My advisor at school. Shay kinda, but mostly because she’s dating Allura. Arguably my advisor’s husband and Allura’s Dad, Coran. Maybe Ryou. Definitely my advisor’s dog. My neighbors, sorta, and maybe this other guy in my department, if you stretch your definition of ‘friends’ a little bit. And you guys, if you want to—”

“Uh, _yeah_ , we want to,” Lance not-quite-snaps. “That’s literally the whole point of this—”

“Just… Be patient with me?” Keith _should_ keep looking at them (more or less) directly. But trying to do that is making his heart break out its horrible, jerking dance routine, the one where it stops but makes no promises about starting up again. Sighing, Keith shuts his eyes.

“I want to be friends too,” he says. “But if I don’t always know what to do, or I get overwhelmed, just? Be patient with me? Please?”

The silence that settles into the room grates on Keith’s nerves so badly, he’s grateful when Lance loudly clears his throat. The gratitude disappears when Lance drawls, _“Keith. Keeeeith? Come on, Mullet, look at me”_ — which makes Keith knot his fingers up in his hair a smidge too tightly. Something cold and guilty writhes around his chest, grazing long claws along his ribcage. Short on other ideas, Keith bites back a groan and tugs on his hair harder.

That does approximately fuck-all nothing to make the guilt die down, so he gives up. Meets Lance’s eyes again. And finds himself on the receiving end of a small, warm smile.

“Look, man,” he says. “The fam deals with complicated stuff from _everybody_ —”

“I’m not saying that you _don’t_ , it’s just—” Keith shuts up when Lance mimes slitting his own throat.

“You’ve said your piece. Now, it’s our turn. This is the part where you shut up and listen, capisce?” When Keith nods, Lance sighs from the pit of his chest and straightens up. “As I was trying to say? We, as a fam, deal with all kinds of stuff from _everyone_. We deal with pulling Pidge out of research binges where she forgets that you can’t live on coffee alone—”

“It’s more likely than you’d think,” she adds. “Me needing intervention about that, I mean.”

“And we deal with Hunk being nosy—”

“Like you’re any better, when you want to be.” Rolling his eyes affectionately, Hunk leans over to flick at Lance’s ear.

With a snort, Lance bats Hunk’s hand away. “ _And_ we deal with his bad puns, and telling him not to stress-bake at two AM because he’ll feel worse if he doesn’t go to sleep, and what happens when he overdoes it on the beans at dinner. Oh, and his weird belief that M &M’s taste better if you alphabetize them by color—”

“ _And_ we deal with Lance being extra, and a handful, and moody without really brooding, and sticking his legs all over everything—”

“Oh, like _you_ can complain about my legs, Hunkules!” Lance pouts. “You seemed pretty into groping them last night—”

Hunk holds up a hand to make Lance cram it. Looking him in the eye, Hunk smirks. “Fine. We are regularly treated to the privilege of Lance sticking his long, sexy legs all over everything, even when it’s sometimes inconvenient and his knees are pointy so getting hit with one tends to freaking _hurt_. Better?”

Lance ruffles a hand over his hair, flashes a grin like he’s exceptionally pleased with himself. “Much. Thank you, Gorgeous.”

Which gets Hunk’s cheeks to darken with a blush — which, in turn, was probably Lance’s intent — but Hunk’s smiling warmly, albeit uncertainly, when he looks back to Keith.

“And then there’s Shiro, who has a _lot_ to deal with, I mean?” Hunk shrugs. “I’m not talking about flashbacks and panic attacks, ‘cause those aren’t his fault and he deals with them pretty well, considering? But he feels bad when he asks for help. He feels bad when he _doesn’t_ ask for help. He feels bad for feeling bad because he knows that other people have problems, too. He feels worse for feeling like that because he also knows we care about him and he’s already been called out on shit like that, like, ‘Keeping your problems locked away from people is _part_ of your bigger freaking problem’—”

“Sometimes, when he’s feeling _really_ bad?” Leaning toward Keith conspiratorially, Lance says, “If he starts ignoring his texts, then _sometimes_? He’ll only read mine because he feels like shit but doesn’t want me to feel neglected because I don’t see the read receipts—”

“And that’s not even getting to stuff like how stubborn he can be.” Pidge squirms, folding her arms over her chest and huffing. “Sometimes, it’s a good thing that he doesn’t give up easily? But other times, he’s being stubborn about stuff like, ‘Everyone who knows what they’re talking about, sobriety-wise, has told you that taking your Xanax doesn’t count as using. Please, for the love of God, shut up and take your meds when you need them.’ Or, ‘It’s okay to let yourself be the little spoon, Shiro. None of us _minds_ doing that for you, not even with you being a freaking six-foot, three-inch tree, and only Hunk really rivaling you for size.’ Or—”

She puts on a high, whiny voice that sounds nothing like Shiro while saying, “‘Guys, I _know_ that Lotor’s bad for me, but I _love_ him and someone needs to help him with his problems. Yes, he’s an adult and yes, he has his own friends, but I’m not a perfectly perfect boyfriend either so I owe him because of reasons, okay, _reasons_ —’”

“Or, y’know, there’s always, like…” Hunk rolls his eyes and affects his own whiny Shiro voice. “‘Guys, I know I said I’d talk to Ulaz and my sponsor about this problem last week, but I really just forgot to do it. Who’s making excuses for putting it off, _I’m_ not making any excuses for putting it off. Oh God, please don’t look at me like that, don’t take it like that. Oh God, now I’ve disappointed you, can’t you just be _mad at me_ instead, wouldn’t that be easier for everybody. Oh noooooo, don’t call Ryou about it, you don’t need to make him come invoke twin magic with me even though you obviously do. Oh my God, you guys, shut _uuuuuuup_.’”

Lance actually gets pretty close to mimicking Shiro’s real voice, if not his speech patterns, as he tacks on, “‘Guys, come on, there’s _no way_ that Keith is really into me like that, he can’t be. Yeah, I know he kissed me, but he’s probably touch-starved and we used to make out all the time back in Chicago, so it probably doesn’t mean anything serious to him. No, I _haven’t_ flat-out asked him yet, and yes, I can see that he doesn’t full-on hate me like I thought—’”

“Idiot,” Keith mutters, rubbing at his temple. “I mean, God, he’s a genius and I love him, but sometimes? He’s an _idiot_ —”

As if Keith hasn’t said anything, Lance goes on, “‘But, guys, Keith _can’t_ be in love with me for real because he literally just cannot. Sometimes, it seems like he might be, but it wouldn’t make any _sense_ , okay? I fucked up by him really, really bad before. It was messy and complicated, and I was in that train-wreck with Coño Maurice, and I was a disaster, and I hurt Keith _so_ badly, even though I promised him I wouldn’t. And I know that I’ve been _dreaming_ of getting a second chance with him, and I know I said I was gonna go for it with him, but now that it’s real and he’s here, every little setback looks like he wishes that he never met me.’”

Shrugging, Lance tries to give Keith a smile and comes up short. “But you probably know more about handling that than we do.”

“I’d say we know it in different _ways_ , but not any more or less…” Cheeks flushing, Keith trails off and mumbles an apology.

“Our point _being_ ,” Lance says, so brightly that it’s borderline unnerving. “I know we can all come on strong, and okay? Maybe all three of us ganging up on you like this wasn’t the best idea? It was mine, by the way. Hunk and Pidge didn’t question it or raise objections, but if you’re gonna point fingers, then I came up with it, not them, so don’t be mad at them, or, like—”

“ _Focus_ , buddy,” Hunk hisses, flicking Lance’s ear again.

Lance groans that he’s getting to it, but goes soft when he looks back to Keith. “We are totally okay with learning how to handle things on your level,” he says. “And Allura’s, if you two are like a package deal, like Matt with Pidge or Shiro and Ryou being twins and all? Or we can learn what to do for her if she just wants to hang with us more often, without it being like that. And okay, _you_ might need to be patient with us here, too, because…? Well, I mean, come on—”

“We try our best,” says Pidge, “but nobody’s perfect.”

“Yeah, what she said.” Seeming so hopeful that it makes Keith’s chest hurt, Lance puts his smile back on. “But however things have gone so far and whatever you’re thinking? Looking out for each other is part of what we do around here. It’s not a big deal.”

“It is to me,” Keith says before he can stop himself.

He means it, too. But right now, that only makes his face go warmer (and no doubt redder) as he rubs his forehead and tries to cover his ass: “Not that I’m saying, like? It’s not about thinking you guys don’t mean it, or… All I meant by that was, like… I’m not turning y’all down about this, I swear that I’m not. I don’t wanna blow y’all off, I know it maybe came off that way but I really, _really_ hope it didn’t, it’s just…”

A deep breath. One more sigh. “Thanks, you guys,” he says, forcing himself to keep his eyes open. “It means a lot to me.”

Pidge shrugs. “Not being the only one around here who’s on the spectrum means a lot to me.”

“Anyway,” adds Hunk, “what are friends for, right?”

“And I swear, we’ll let you get back to reading, if you want to? But first…” Lance jerks his hand, pointing over his shoulder with his thumb. “I meant it about giving you one of our band-shirts, okay? And I might grab the wrong size or a design that you don’t like, so?” He smirks as if he and Keith are about to go plant a pipe-bomb together, or maybe stick a potato in Lotor’s tailpipe. “Come on, Mullet. Let’s pick out something hot for you.”

*** * ***

Not so much a problem as an annoyance, Keith spends most of the band-shirt negotiations trying to make Lance understand that he has no interest in wearing a Galaxy Garrison crop-top in November. Not because he feels insecure, not because he’s afraid of how Shiro might react to his body ( _“That’s stupid,”_ Keith points out. _“Unless you mean that he might not want to let go of me for long enough to play your set, after what we did last night”_ ), and not because he has any “inexplicable and dumbass so-called moral objections to crop-tops.”

Contrary to what Lance wants to think, Keith’s objection comes from the simple, practical reason of it currently being _November_.

In fairness, Keith can see Lance’s point that he probably isn’t going to catch his death of frostbite if he wears a crop-top to the bar tonight. For one thing, it’s still early in the month and things haven’t even started freezing over yet. For another, Moonstruck Tavern _does_ run pretty warm. For a third, Lance doesn’t think that Shiro would completely mind if Keith attached to his back like a limpet and leeched his body heat. It’s a decent enough case — but aside from the hoodie that he has with him, Keith’s colder-weather clothes are all back at his own apartment. Since he doesn’t feel like going back to get any of them, Keith only wants a normal, full-length t-shirt that keeps his torso covered and minimizes the chance that he might freeze to death.

It ends up being black and a bit loose-fitting, with _“Galaxy Garrison”_ printed on the chest in red letters. Styled so they look like they’re dripping blood, like a poster from some vintage monster movie, the words bow out around a design that looks like one of Shiro’s cartoony doodles. Also done up in red, it depicts what Keith guesses is some kind of wolf-man, standing on the moon and baying at different constellations. According to Hunk, the drawing matches a song off their last album, one of the ones that they didn’t play at last month’s show. “Werewolf Love Song (Done With You)” — it’s on their setlist for tonight, so Keith will get to hear it, though Hunk feels compelled to warn him about it not being one of their more pleasant songs.

“Not that it isn’t a _good_ song,” he explains. “We wouldn’t be playing it tonight if it weren’t good? But Shiro writing that one was sorta how the rest of us started finding out about Maurice, like? Before, we mostly knew he’d been to rehab, and _something_ bad went on for him in Chicago, and he was struggling but didn’t really like talking about it.”

When Keith makes up his mind and decides that he wants the werewolf shirt, Lance rolls his eyes. “I swear to God,” he says, more or less affectionately. “If I didn’t know that you’re a Dolly Parton fanboy, I’d think you were the biggest goth kid little shit I’ve ever met in my entire life.”

Which is all fine and dandy, but not long after, Shiro gets back with Rover. At least Hunk and Lance take no visible offense when Keith deems Shiro far more interesting than debating the relative value of different t-shirt designs. The matter seems pretty much settled. If it hadn’t been good enough that Keith likes the shirt he picked out for himself, then there’s added bonus of Shiro ruffling Keith’s hair, leaning down to kiss his forehead, and making a point of saying how cute his Baby allegedly looks. True, Shiro might get sappy and adorable like that about Keith wearing _any_ Galaxy Garrison t-shirt, but it’s still nice to hear him say it.

Heading over to Moonstruck early strikes a weird chord in Keith’s chest. He doesn’t mind getting to come along, not exactly. He doesn’t mind helping tote amps and cables down to Matt’s van or sitting in the far-backseat with Lance while because they both lost their rounds of _“rock, paper, scissors”_ with Shiro and Hunk, Matt is driving, and Pidge called dibs on shotgun. But sound-check before the show feels like it’s something that Keith shouldn’t get access to, being as he isn’t one of the performers. It feels like he’s stealing a peek behind someone’s veil, after he promised that he wouldn’t.

Even so, no one in the band raises any objections to the idea of Keith coming with them. He doesn’t meet any resistance at the bar, either, when he shows up with Galaxy Garrison. As far as he can tell, Ricki — the cute bartender from before — doesn’t mind bringing him a Coke and putting it on Galaxy Garrison’s tab, when Keith finishes hauling in the band’s equipment and sets up shop on one of the stools.

Dimly, Keith considers adding Jack to his Coke, but dismisses that idea before putting in an order. Aside from having very Shiro-shaped reasons not to drink tonight, Keith brings _Knowledge Or Death_ with him. Somehow, he doesn’t think that reading Antok’s book would mix terribly well with alcohol. It might be amusing to try. If Keith could spare the expense, he might be tempted to read the book with Allura, Shay, and maybe Regris, with drinking game rules like, _“Take one shot every time Antok relies on a Marxist critique of something that doesn’t actually seem particularly relevant to Marxism,”_ _“Take two shots every time you find a reference to Kolivan in the footnotes”_ or, _“Take three shots every time one of Antok’s footnotes sounds a lot like nerdy flirting with his husband.”_

Then again, rules like that might require them to keep one person sober, just in case they wound up needing a designated driver to get to the ER. So, even if Keith could play a drinking game like that without fear of somehow upsetting Shiro (never mind chipping in toward the cost of buying all the necessary alcohol), it might not actually be worth it, in the end.

Besides, Keith is reading on his own right now, and there isn’t any real purpose to his drink. He just likes having it while he tries to focus on the latest chapter of Antok’s book — in which he starts addressing how issues of money, class, ethnicity, and gender compounded each other within the Blade of Marmora’s ranks — and silently endures listening to the evening’s different bands checking to make sure they have everything ready for their sets. The different test songs that they play serve important purposes for their sakes, sure. But for his own part, Keith never needed to hear Nat King Cole’s “L-O-V-E” played on an accordion, a violin, and a machine that generates dubstep-sounding drum-beats.

Of the eight groups competing tonight, Keith only recognizes three of them, as such. Galaxy Garrison, obviously. If the sound-checks are anything to go by, then The Moonfish and Plastic Fun-Time Sex Riot probably aren’t taking home any prizes tonight, because they sound, if anything, even worse than they did at the show a few weeks back. A Nebula Close, Close By doesn’t manage to impress Keith too much, either. One group called Bad Taquitos sounds like the aural equivalent. Similarly, the band who calls themselves Dammit, Jenny! doesn’t seem to deserve that gratuitous stylistic exclamation point, like Panic! At The Disco and Wham! before them. Teddy and the Bearsevelts don’t sound too terrible — maybe even good enough to give Galaxy Garrison a real challenge — and their name makes sense enough to Keith, given how the members are burly, hairy dudes, all of them either muscular or chubby.

Going by process of elimination, based on the list of names printed on a flier, the last band to do their check is called The Ultraviolents. Nursing a glass of water after his second Coke, Keith appreciates the _Clockwork Orange_ reference in their name. Maybe it’s not the most wildly inventive band name that he’s ever heard. Maybe they didn’t mean it on purpose. But it sounds clever, either way, and Keith lets himself have a little chuckle when the MC calls them up to for their turn.

At least, Keith thinks their name is pretty clever until he glances at the stage and sees Lotor at the microphone, with a royal purple electric guitar slung across his chest. Without his usual long, self-insistent asshole trench-coat, Lotor shows off a body that’s a bit scrawnier than Keith expected. Sure, he hasn’t seen any signs that Lotor has, this whole time, been hiding any body-builder tendencies underneath his lithe frame. If anything, he’s probably a good deal more dangerous than his lean physique might suggest. Still, stripped of the armor that his trench-coat offers him, he looks even thinner and pointier than Keith already knew, and hunches his shoulders as he focuses on getting his guitar to do exactly what he wants it.

Cringing over Lotor’s involvement in this band might not be fair — probably not to their music, and almost certainly not to Lotor’s band-mates — but Keith can’t entirely help it. Simply seeing that asshole here makes Keith recall his attempted pick-up lines and his unfortunate thoughts on “Tainted Love.” The only immediately visible upside to anything is that, in all likelihood, Keith and Lotor won’t have any need to deal with each other for the evening. Lotor has a show to play, so Keith can probably escape without an incident cropping up between them.

Watching Lotor’s band-mates work soon offers Keith another upside. Even if it’s just a sound-check, they play well, or so it seems, and the four of them look _interesting_ , both together and as individuals. To his left and a bit upstage, there stands a long-limbed, flexible-looking girl in a hot pink crop-top and a plaid mini-skirt. Almost as tall as Lotor, she has her long, neon orange hair tied back in pigtails and plays her keyboards like a viper lashing out to grab its prey. Behind all of them, the drummer manages not to insist upon herself, not even when she bangs out driving, forceful rhythms with (as far as Keith can tell) absolute precision. It takes a few moments of squinting, not to mention peering around the other members of her band, for Keith to even tell that the drummer has a pair of sunglasses and black hair tied up in a ponytail.

Opposite the keyboardist but somewhat to Lotor’s right, another guitarist looms over the rest of the band, short, violently pink hair clashing with the warm, dark brown of her skin in such a way that Keith can’t imagine her having. Watching her strum a few power chords and adjust some settings, the only word that Keith can call to mind is _“big”_ — but in fairness, it’s pretty damn appropriate. Aside from her height, the second guitarist has shoulders that look about as broad as Antok’s and biceps that might very well be the size of Keith’s head. If she plays the show the way that she plays the sound-check, then Keith thinks he might actually survive the Ultraviolents’ set without too many issues. Big Pink-Haired Guitarist Lady’s voice harmonizes well with Lotor’s, and she gets noises from her axe that resonate deep inside Keith’s chest. He isn’t certain how they make him feel — unfortunately, she switches between them before he can truly process anything — but he likes the way they sound.

The bassist, though, is the one who catches Keith’s eye the most, and he doesn’t feel like it’s exclusively because he has a sentimental spot for the most oft-forgotten members of any given rock band. She’s shorter than the keyboardist and both of the guitarists, with a compact-looking frame. Her hair is navy blue, with the longer parts held back by four black clips, two on each side of her head. Underneath the faint rehearsal lights, her skin has a golden color like Lotor’s, though maybe a bit cooler and paler than his. If he looks like a harvest moon, then she looks like she hasn’t seen the sunlight in a while. Her sharp cheeks and jawline give the bassist a knife’s-edge look to her, but the way she pouts makes her seem borderline reluctant, as if she knows how sharp she seems and doesn’t particularly enjoy it.

More than anything else, though, the blue-haired bassist seems impossibly familiar. From his seat at the bar, Keith can’t tell _why_ she’s making him feel like he recognizes her, much less why anything about her would stick out enough to overcome his difficulty learning names and faces. Blue hair might stick out more if Keith didn’t see plenty of people with it roving around campus. Hell, Lance’s ex-girlfriend/coworker from the record store shows up soon after the doors open to the public, with her arm around a pretty redhead’s shoulders. While Ms. Mermaid Pigtails and Lance lean on the bar, going back and forth in rapid Spanglish, her wavy, aquamarine locks remind Keith that blue shades of hair are not limited to Kaltenecker’s student body.

He briefly gets his mind off of the Ultraviolents’ bassist when Shiro plops onto the stool next to him and orders up a Diet Coke with lime. Not that having him around completely takes away Keith’s interest in learning who that blue-haired girl is, but Shiro is more than suitably distracting. All he needs to do is tuck Keith’s hair behind his ear — and, at one point, introduce Keith to that Sven guy he’s been told about, who apparently decided to tag along with Ryou and his roommate tonight — and Shiro commands Keith’s attention perfectly with barely any effort on his part. Why would anybody want to look at anything else when they have Shiro’s more or less completely undivided attention, the way that Keith does?

However, it seems all things must pass. After Bad Taquitos play their six songs (a collection of rapid numbers the longest of which lasts _maybe_ two-and-a-half minutes tops, and all of which bleed into each other) and partway into The Moonfish’s set, Shiro begs off from the bar. He says he’ll only be a moment, he needs to go see if he’s hallucinating or if Mitch — _“Right, sorry,”_ he corrects himself, in the face of Keith blinking at him in confusion, _“I mean to say Doctor Iverson”_ — if Mitch actually decided to come to one of Shiro’s shows for once. As much as Keith doesn’t typically get along with Iverson, and as much as he can’t imagine the man at a rock show, the way that Shiro beams at the mere idea of this makes Keith hope that Iverson really _did_ show up.

Once Shiro’s slid off his stool and wandered off, Keith starts looking around for something else to hold his interest. Anything else. It doesn’t need to be terribly significant — but his eyes land on the blue-haired bassist, sitting just a few seats down.

Up in closer proximity, Keith still can’t quite tell what’s making something prickle in the back of his mind, nagging at him that he _knows_ her, that he’s seen her somewhere before. As much as he doesn’t want to be a creep or anything, he watches her polish off a glass of water from out of the corner of her eye. When she orders another, Keith squints in her direction, but the only new thing he can make out is the logo on her black t-shirt: a neon violet circle surrounded by orange tongues of flame, with the name of her band in that same color and a jagged-looking font, wrapped around a purple dot that’s planted in the center, right above her chest. It’s pretty neat, as far as logos go, but Keith isn’t going to put any of this together for himself if he stays over here, all by his lonesome.

As much as it makes him feel like he’s edging into potentially creepy territory, Keith takes his book and his Coke, and slides down the bar. He settles so that he and the bassist still have a stool left between them, in case she’s the sort of person who values her personal space. Step one’s out of the way, and now, Keith needs to figure out what to say to her. Which probably shouldn’t pose him any challenge, except for how much easier initiating conversations is when he isn’t painfully aware of how stupid his opening lines all sound, and how he isn’t helping anything by tonguing at his lips and waiting for his mouth to work.

Ultimately, she kicks things off for him, saying flatly, “You’re cute, but I am already spoken for.”

“Huh?” Flushing pink and struggling to meet her gaze, Keith blinks at her hands.

She has long fingers and short nails, and the way she plays with the bendy part of her straw makes him wonder if she’s impatient or if she might have spent her childhood taking things apart, just to see how they worked.

She waits for him to look up again before she clarifies, “You are cute. I’m sure we could have a nice time. But I already have a girlfriend to whom I’m devoted, and two additional datemates who are some of our best friends and a couple in their own right.”

“Oh. That’s okay, I wasn’t…” Keith scratches the back of his neck and dimly wishes that he could literally dig his way out of this hole. “I actually have someone, too? He’s around here somewhere, so I wasn’t trying to… Not that you aren’t, I don’t know, or anything, I just…”

Furrowing her brow, she makes her eyes flash like a burst of lightning — and it hits Keith. Where he’s seen her—

“Oh my God, it’s _you_!”

Probably not the best way to kick things off. Not least since she beats him to the punch before he can figure out what else to say, and deadpans at him, “It’s me? Yes? I’ve never been anyone else _besides_ me—”

“No, no, I mean…” Keith sighs so heavily, he briefly wonders if he might expel all the air inside his lungs and then pass out. Pushing his bangs back off his forehead, he says, “You. From Shay’s protest. The one at the college, back in February? The conservative groups showed up and it turned into a riot, and you got separated from your friends—”

“You!” she bursts out, looking like recognition just smacked her in the face with an oversized plastic fish. Slipping onto the stool that Keith left between them, she nods. “The messy-looking one in the bright red jacket. Quick on his feet. Helped get me back to the girls—”

“Keith,” he says, holding out a hand, because that’s apparently what normal people do when meeting each other. “Keith Kogane.”

With a small, sharp smile, she shakes back. “Acxa Rose Nikrell,” she says with an air that more than somewhat reminds Keith of Allura.

Specifically, Acxa reminds Keith of Allura right before she gets ready to rip Hira a new one in the middle of a class debate and do it so gracefully that only usually Thace and Hira will even try to call the Princess out on any logical fallacies, pieces of information that she’s overlooking, or other holes in her argument. (Well, Keith might consider doing it, sometimes, when he isn’t right there with her on wanting Hira to shut up already. But he’d do it later, after Allura had gotten some of the fight out of her system and preferably somewhere Hira wouldn’t have the chance to misconstrue it as Allura’s paladin disagreeing with her.)

Either way, it’s probably all in his head, the vague sense that he might understand how the fly felt when the spider beckoned it into her parlor. More than that, it’s probably something that he’s gonna need to deal with in talking about his problems to someone who has the weight of professional expertise behind any advice they offer.

Slouching onto her elbows, clenching her hands around her empty glass, Acxa tries to smile. “So, what have _you_ been up to?”

“Surviving,” Keith supposes with a shrug. “Getting invited to rock shows. You?”

“Songwriting. Working in retail. Songwriting about how much I hate working in retail.” She shrugs. Pauses to thank Ricki, when she comes back with Axca’s refill. “Having my girlfriend throw our lead guitarist over her shoulder and bodily drag him to therapy,” she says as though this is something that normal people openly admit to in casual conversation. “Or anyway, we’ve _threatened_ to do that. He knows that she could do it, too. A while back, she bridal carried him to the emergency room when he had pneumonia and kept trying to cure it with orange juice, ginger ale, and over-the-counter cold medicine.”

“That… seems stressful? Not that I’m trying to judge or anything, not without really knowing him or what he’s like for you to deal with? But I mean? Your lead guitarist sounds… pretty high-maintenance?”

Keith drums his fingertips along his own glass, trying to rein his mouth in before he lets himself snicker or smirk too obviously. He needs to remember this anecdote for as long as possible. He needs to savor and hang on tightly to the mental image of (he assumes) the Big Pink-Haired Guitarist Lady manhandling Prince Loser and carrying him around in her huge, strong arms, probably while he whines about how he doesn’t deserve this horrible, humiliating fate that he completely brought about himself through his own concentrated idiocy. God, Keith didn’t know how much he needed to hear something like that tonight. But there aren’t any protocols he knows offhand for talking to That Person I Know Because We Helped Each Other Avoid Dying That One Time, and he assumes that Acxa might not appreciate Keith making fun of her friend.

Whatever she feels about any of this conversation, Acxa shrugs. “He’s been my friend for longer than anybody else has ever done,” she explains. “He has helped me out of my own tight spots more than once. And nobody would ever have any friends at all, if we had to be perfect to deserve that kind of connection, hmm?”

“Well, I know I wouldn’t,” Keith mutters before he can tell himself not to say a thing like that to someone who’s only a few steps up from a perfect stranger, and only escapes that label on a couple technicalities.

Then again, Acxa’s being pretty open, even if it’s mostly because she’s giving Keith information that Lotor likely wouldn’t appreciate him having. Fair being fair and all, Keith sighs and adds on, “If I had to be perfect to get anywhere with other people, then I wouldn’t have had either of the best friends I’ve ever had in my life. Or my advisor up at school. Or the friends I’ve happened into without entirely realizing that we’re friends. And I definitely wouldn’t have gotten to the point I’m at with Shiro—”

“ _Shiro_?” Acxa parrots, getting that look of recognition again. “Ohhhh, so, you’re _that_ Keith.” She gives Keith a moment to wonder what she means by that, then explains, “The Keith who Lotor’s taken to calling _street rat_. Shiro’s new guy who’s kinda actually not that new.”

Keith tenses his shoulders. Tightens his grip around his glass. He tries to come up with something he can say for himself about this, even without knowing what Lotor might have been telling his friends about any of their interactions with each other. There has to be something that Keith can say, something to make it so maybe Acxa _doesn’t_ completely hate him, even though he possibly deserves, in her mind, it for treating her friend the way he has.

Except she holds up a hand before Keith can tell her anything. “Don’t worry about it, okay? I’ve only heard his side of the story, but Lotor is often the reason why we have terms like _unreliable narrator_. Or anyway, he presents a very compelling case for their existence and continued use.”

As accurate as Keith suspects this statement is, there probably isn’t a good way to agree to it without being some kind of rude and overly judgmental. If it were only mocking Lotor, then he wouldn’t mind. But Acxa doesn’t deserve any insults, as far as Keith can tell. Any agreement on his part could come off as an insult against her, rather than one against her friend. Life might be infinitely easier if they could install scripts in Keith’s head so he could better handle these kinds of situations. Perfect guides wouldn’t even be necessary, just skeletons that he could fall back on in situations like this without worrying that he’s going to fuck up _something_ like he has in so many other situations when he’s tried to use some of the things that people have tried to make him learn.

Then again, scripts like that probably wouldn’t have room for nice surprises. For example, something warm and firm nestling up against Keith’s back, a hand gently squeezing his bicep, and the smell of Shiro’s pomegranate body wash. When he nods and leans back into Shiro’s chest, Keith gets the reward of Shiro hugging him around the shoulders and nuzzling at the top of his head.

“Hey, Acxa,” he says, and knowing Shiro, most likely smiles. “I see you already met Keith?”

“Oh, yes, I have.” Acxa smirks playfully. “Lotor’s complaining doesn’t do your guy justice.”

That makes Shiro sigh in a way that Keith can’t quite decipher. “God, I’m sorry about him and his… Y’know, his whole—”

“Tendency to be a difficult, obnoxious pain in the ass when he feels threatened? Even when he isn’t in a romantic relationship with someone anymore and should, like I told him, simply pull a _Frozen_ and let. It. _Go_?” Despite the upward inflection, she shrugs as if everyone already knows the answers to these questions. With a huff, she says, “If anyone should apologize for anything here, it’s him. He’s working on it, but? There is rather a lot to work on, so that might remain a work-in-progress for some time.”

She must catch Keith pulling a face, because Acxa’s quick to add, “I would say all of this to Lotor’s face, if he were here. I _have_ before. Being blunt with him may not always work, but it usually gives him less room to pull any of his favorite _stunts_.”

Which sounds fair enough, Keith guesses. But it’s hard to stay focused on replying when the Big Pink-Haired Guitarist Lady swoops in behind Acxa, scooping her up in a hug around the shoulders like Shiro’s doing with Keith. The biggest difference seems to be that Big Pink-Haired Guitarist Lady easily rests her chin on Acxa’s head, while Shiro would need to crane his neck a bit to do that while Keith’s sitting on a bar-stool.

“Guess who,” she says, rubbing her cheek against Axca’s hair-clips like Alfor’s cat rubbing on Allura’s legs.

“Hmmm.” Acxa sighs, faux-pensively. “A beautiful, lesbian dragon coming to rescue her favorite princess from being carried off by a big, mean knight in pretentious, shiny pants?” Smiling, she tilts her head back and tickles a finger along her girlfriend’s jaw. “Yep, sure seems like a dragon to me.”

“Like I’d let anything happen to you, milady.” Chuckling, Big Pink-Haired Guitarist Lady tilts her head at Keith. “Who’s the stray kitten?”

“Not a stray,” Shiro says, as if having Keith here as his guest is anything to brag about. For a hot second, he squeezes Keith tighter and rubs his chest against Keith’s back. “Baby, this is Zethrid. She boxes, she plays rhythm and supporting guitar in The Ultraviolents, she volunteers over at the community center, sometimes—”

“Somebody’s gotta teach the self-defense classes.”

“And one time, I saw her beat up a guy who was harassing Ezor — er, she’s their keyboardist, and she used to go out with Ryou, and they’re still friends — and anyway, Zethrid fought the guy until he apologized while humming ‘Be Our Guest’ from _Beauty And The Beast_ —”

“It’s like I told him.” Zethrid grins and shrugs. “I said he could either back up off her or be the guest of some fucking _pain_.”

Shiro might not think it’s the best thing to get excited about, but Keith shoots an approving smile Zethrid’s way. Even if Shiro might possibly disapprove, he can’t currently see Keith’s face clearly enough, and even if Zethrid bares her teeth as if they’re fangs, she should know that Keith appreciates hearing a story like that. He appreciates what she did to that guy and how she did it for her friend’s sake.

“Zethrid, this is Keith.” Shiro pauses to nuzzle at his hair and kiss his temple. “Keith’s a history student at the college. He’s a writer and a stubborn little minx, he loves Dolly Parton like I love George Michael, and he was on my mind when I wrote ‘When You’re Away.’”

“Should I thank him for that, then? ‘Cause I love that song. You guys are playing it tonight, right?”

“Oh, no question, we had to put it on our setlist—”

“ _Nice_.” Zethrid nods and gets a glimmer in her eyes that screams, _Bring the pain_. “Good to know you won’t just roll over and let us win—”

“As if they would ever dream of such a thing, _anektra_ ,” Acxa points out with a snicker. Catching Keith’s furrowed brow, she explains, “It’s a Galran term for, ‘beloved.’ Shiro knows the word because Lotor used to call him that. Zethrid and I know it because we’re both half-Galra. And I thought, because of _this_ …” She reaches over to tap on the cover of Keith’s book. “That you might know the word as well. Not too many people read about the Blade of Marmora for fun.”

Keith shakes his head. “I took Altean for my language credits,” he says. “But I kinda wanna take Galran when I start my Master’s.”

“Zethrid started her Master’s this semester.” Acxa leans her head on Zethrid’s shoulder. “She’s taking Altean for her program’s language credits.”

“Hit me up ever wanna trade some tips on each other’s languages, Little Man.” Zethrid nods at Keith. “Come find me in the library or the Women’s and Gender Studies department sometime.”

“Won’t that possibly piss off your friend?” Keith points out. “Lotor, I mean. He kinda hates me.”

“That’s nothing new, though. Lotor kinda hates a lot of people,” Zethrid explains with a chuckle. “If he gets cranky about us hanging out, I’ll distract him with a Disney sing-along. ‘Be Prepared,’ ‘Poor Unfortunate Souls,’ maybe ‘Do You Want To Build A Snowman.’ Works every time. Unless he’s down with serious pneumonia, but that’s an extenuating circumstance.”

As much as Keith sees her point, he’s far more interested in committing _this_ fact about Lotor to memory, too. He can’t judge Lotor for being easily distracted by singing Disney numbers with his friends. Still, there might be a potential future use for this information. Even if all it accomplishes is making Lotor leave him the Hell alone sometime, that’s a perfectly fair reason to memorize the Disney songs that most distract that purple-haired asshole.

Dropping her gaze to a point Keith can’t easily identify, Zethrid gets an unreadable smirk. “Or Shiro still has my number, if that’s easier than you coming to hunt me down. And he’d have to be an idiot not to share it with somebody who can mark up his pretty skin like that. Assuming that hickey-necklace he’s sporting tonight was _your_ doing.”

“Oh, it was.” As Shiro clings to him more tightly, Keith briefly thinks this might not be the best thing for him to say in public. But the _bring it on_ gleam in Zethrid’s green eyes eggs him on enough to add, “I probably could’ve done a better job? Then again, he might get arrested for indecent exposure if he showed off some of the bruises where I put in more effort.”

“Oh, really.” Zethrid snickers. “So, what d’you think you are, then? The Caravaggio of hickeys?”

“Well, Shiro’s the Michelangelo of making out, so I try my best? But as long as he appreciates my work? All I need to be is Keith, the street rat who likes leaving Shiro hickeys.” Keith shrugs, smirks back at Zethrid. “Last night’s nicest ones are on his chest, so they’re more for him than anybody else.”

She lets out a barking, appreciative laugh at that. With a startled noise that sounds suspiciously like, _“meep,”_ Shiro he buries his face in Keith’s hair. He sighs fondly, manages a bit of a chuckle, pecks gently at Keith’s temple. While he’s preoccupied, Shiro might well miss the way that Keith’s chest swells with pride. He doesn’t want to look like a smug asshole or anything. Still, a part of Keith can’t help enjoying the fact that he’s the reason why Shiro is most likely blushing and trying to hide his face as much as the hickeys on his torso.

Not that he can manage to completely shield himself from the rest of the world’s view, but that’s okay. It’s adorable that Shiro’s even trying, with the breadth of his shoulders and how tall he is. Keith won’t argue with being hugged so close to Shiro either. His embrace is warm and easy to slouch into, even given that they’re out in public and could easily be seen by people other than Acxa and Zethrid. Having Shiro’s arms slung around his shoulders doesn’t just make Keith feel safe; it also makes him feel like there’s something unquestionably right about this moment and his place in it.

Vaguely, Keith wonders if he should feel more uncomfortable with the prospect of other patrons seeing him and Shiro like this. On the other hand, though, Shiro’s openly hugging him instead of holding back, and as Keith brushes his knuckles down the back of Shiro’s hand, he can’t help smiling at the idea of everybody in the bar knowing that he is Shiro’s and Shiro is his.

Then again, the fact that Shiro’s been in a good mood today doesn’t mean that _he_ might be totally cool with this, or that Keith might not be at risk of upsetting him before a show. A bit awkwardly, Keith wriggles in Shiro’s hold and turns his head so he can nuzzle at Shiro’s cheek and jawline.

“You okay, babe?” When Shiro nods, Keith squeezes his forearm. “You sure?”

Thankfully, Shiro considers that question for a moment before he tells Keith, “Not used to being flaunted in a way that I like. Getting shown off without getting treated like a prize to be won? And there’s some of that good old…” He huffs as if saying that he’s as discontent with what’s going on in his head as he expects Keith to be. “Y’know, the thing where you love me so much and I get embarrassed about it?”

“You give as good as you get, for what it’s worth.” Which might not be much, though, so Keith butts his forehead at Shiro’s cheek and doesn’t stop himself from muttering, “If only your self-worth issues were as easy to fight as an overgrown skinhead, y’know what I mean?”

Shiro chuckles and supposes that he does. “Can’t say I haven’t felt the same about yours.”

Zethrid, however, scoffs. “When have you ever taken down an overgrown skinhead, Little Man?”

“He _did_ help me get back to Ezor and Narti during that riot—”

“Yeah, but that wasn’t what I meant.” He squeezes Shiro’s wrist again and waits for a nod before trying to explain himself. “So, ‘taken down’ is stretching what happened by a bit, but? This one time, back in Chicago? Shiro, our old roommate, and I went out to a bar, which was pretty typical. When we were all leaving, there were some skinheads going at these other guys in the alley. Shiro’s pretty drunk, has even less impulse control than I do, and he runs right in to play big damn heroes—”

“Like you would’ve done anything differently, baby.” Huffing fondly, Shiro kisses Keith’s cheek.

“I _didn’t_ do anything differently,” Keith reminds him. “Anyway, Shiro gets stabbed while I’m running in after him. So, I jump on the guy who did it. He’s about Shiro’s height but built like you—” He nods to Zethrid. “But size advantage or not, I’m drunk and he just stabbed the best friend who I’m in love with, so what else am I gonna do, right?”

“Seems perfectly reasonable to me,” she supposes.

“So, I landed a few good hits. Did some damage. Mark drags the other guys out of the alleyway. Drunk and shocked or not, at least Shiro leaves the knife in. So, he doesn’t totally bleed out before Mark can call 9-1-1 and use one of his shirts to apply pressure around the wound…” With a soft sigh, Keith wiggles and rubs his back along Shiro’s chest. Hopes that Shiro’s getting the message of _I’m really glad that you’re still here_. “But the skinhead threw me off of him before he ran… I got a concussion out of it. Memory of the rest’s a little fuzzy.”

“They got the guy a while after,” Shiro adds. “Then, this one tries to act like the concussion he got is no big deal—”

“I never said that. I thought I was explicit about how it was a big deal, but I was still worried since you got _stabbed_ —”

“Again,” says Zethrid, “perfectly reasonable. For both of you, a bit. I mean, I see both your points—”

“I really _wasn’t_ being reasonable, at the time.” Shiro squeezes Keith again. “And the aftermath of it was a _mess_ —”

“That’s an understatement.” But that was then, and now, Keith leans his head toward Shiro’s face and neck. So they can get off of this subject before it gets too much heavier, Keith tells Zethrid, “But y’know, this other time, when we still lived in Texas? My foster brother was harassing this girl I was friends with just because she was friends with me. And I’m trying to remember Shiro’s whole, ‘Patience yields focus, your feelings aren’t wrong but you have to control your anger’ thing, but Heather had a really shitty home-life, so…”

Even though he _knows_ that this probably wasn’t the best way to have handled things, Keith grins. “I kicked Bryce so hard in the balls that we had to go to the ER and get them extracted. Y’know, after I walked Heather over to this other classmate’s house, so she didn’t have to go back to her parents yet.”

“ _Nice_ work.” Zethrid’s own grin takes up her entire face. “ _Very_ nice.”

“This seems like something you _shouldn’t_ encourage, _anektra_.”

“I’m just saying, Acxa: that move of his was _nice_ —”

“Not for me, it wasn’t.” Shiro sighs, but there isn’t any vitriol behind it. There’s barely any exasperation. “Here I am, I’ve barely had my license for two weeks. Then, Keith shows up on one of the days we _aren’t_ working on his math homework and don’t have any other plans together, and asks if I can come take a look at Bryce—”

“I told you that we could wait about going to the ER, babe. All the noise sucked, but I could’ve put on my headphones after you said he wasn’t dying—”

“ _Probably_ wasn’t dying. Besides…” He kisses Keith’s temple. “I didn’t want you to get in even worse trouble for that.”

Keith drops a hand to palm at Shiro’s thigh. “My only regret is making your day harder.”

For a moment, it seems like Shiro might say something. Glancing over at Acxa, it looks like she has something on her mind as well. As Zethrid drops her chin back onto Acxa’s head, Acxa blinks at Shiro. If the way she’s slumping against her girlfriend and pursing her lips is any indication, then she and Shiro are trading tired expressions. Acxa’s, at the very least, seems to say that she loves her girlfriend, even if she can’t exactly get behind everything that Zethrid likes to do — or, in this case, everything that Zethrid appreciates about other people’s actions.

Unperturbed by any of this, Zethrid beams and holds a hand out toward Keith. “Let me see your phone, Little Man,” she says. “I don’t care what Lotor thinks about us being friends. You’re a little spitfire, so you’re gonna get my number.”

*** * ***

Not that he doesn’t appreciate meeting Zethrid, _properly_ meeting Acxa, or having Shiro around to hug him, because Keith _does_ value all of these aspects of the evening. Still, he bites down a sigh of relief when the three musicians need to beg off to get ready for their respective sets. They have time — The Ultraviolents are playing last tonight, with Galaxy Garrison going on second-to-last — but they also have rituals that they like doing before their performances, and their exit frees Keith up to read.

The good thing about reading a book at the bar is that most of the other patrons don’t bother Keith. If they give him any thought at all, it’s probably just to marvel at the fact that Keith would think of doing something like this during a rock show, or possibly to wonder how he can even manage it. Most of them probably don’t notice him enough to do that, either. Keeping your head down works wonders, like that. Indeed, for a while, Allura and Shay are the only people who come over to Keith’s spot at the bar. They show up right as he finishes a chapter and a glass of Coke, and chatting with them provides a nice breather before they decide that they want to go venture into the mosh-pit, to see if they can get up by the stage for Galaxy Garrison’s set. Maybe sometime, Keith will feel up to joining them in that adventure, but even if he didn’t have a book to finish, a mosh-pit would be pushing things for him, tonight.

Once they’ve left, Keith lets himself believe that he might get through his reading without any interruption until Galaxy Garrison takes the stage. Plastic Fun-Time Sex Riot definitely sounds better when Keith’s intoxicated, but at least they’re sonically unobtrusive and don’t derail his attention span too terribly. Feeling pretty good about this plan, he gets some water with the refill on his Coke — some semblance of balance will probably somehow help him out, for all Keith has no idea what shape that help might take — and settles into the next chapter.

He barely makes it through four pages before someone jostles his shoulder from behind. Before he can hold himself back, Keith spins around to face them. Although he openly rolls his eyes, Keith manages not to sigh or groan at Lotor, even though he probably deserves both of those reactions for something he’s done tonight. Without a sound, Keith simply turns back to his book.

Unfortunately, Lotor swoops into an open seat at Keith’s left-hand side and props himself up on his elbows. “That must be a particularly good book, street rat,” he says a bit too evenly, lacking most of his usual airs. “For you to be reading it at a time like this.”

Keith hums noncommittally and lifts the cover so Lotor can see it, but otherwise keeps reading.

“The Blade of Marmora, hmm? So, you prefer intellectually rigorous books about historical rebel organizations for _pleasure_ reading?”

When he gets no response, Lotor edges toward Keith, hovering dangerously close to the limits of Keith’s personal space. There’s enough room for Keith to breathe without feeling like he’s being encroached upon, and that would probably be easier if he were handling anyone but Lotor. As it stands, though, Keith forces himself to keep his breaths slow and steady. He can’t focus on that _and_ actually understand any of the words, but he turns the page anyway so Lotor might think that he’s still reading. Maybe, for once, Lotor will do something vaguely humane, understand that Keith wants the asshole to leave him alone, and then wander off to bother someone else. He certainly goes quiet enough to seem like he’s getting bored.

Once he has a glass of cranberry juice, though, Lotor gently thwaps the back of his fingers against Keith’s shoulder.

“Why are you putting so much effort into pretending to ignore me, street rat.”

Keith allows himself to think, _Because I want you to go away, you obnoxious jackass._

Externally, he takes advantage of Ricki being right by them to order another Coke.

Lotor sighs so melodramatically that Keith almost lets his resolve waver, for the sake of calling Lotor out.

Thwapping Keith’s arm this time, Lotor says, “This would be infinitely easier for both of us if you would simply acknowledge me, _Keith_.”

_Yes, but then you’d get a taste for my attention and stay around here, bugging me. Using my name doesn’t change that._

Technically, Keith supposes that he isn’t making too much progress by ignoring Lotor, either. And if Lotor were a mind-reader, he would no doubt make some manner of point about how he’s still hanging around, and Keith would be so much better off, indulging him. Which, in turn, means that Keith _can’t_ simply let Lotor have what he wants about whatever is going on between them, this time. Commitment to tuning him out is the only way that Lotor will get the message — or else get bored, but either option is perfectly fine by Keith — and make himself scarce.

Humming faux-pensively, Lotor rests his pointy chin on one of his palms. “You know, Antok’s second book on the Blades is infinitely better than the first,” he says as if commenting on the paint-by-numbers plot-points of some TV show he watched last night. “I understand that he felt the need to address several different points within their history, and much of the scholarship on the Marmora is utterly appalling in its lack of quality. Regardless, he manages to go into far more specific stories with the second book, and offers a more complete, less abstract view of who the Blades were, what they fought for, and so on, and so forth. He’s also much more in his element as a historian, looking so intensely at those hard, material details—”

_Do not respond to that_ , Keith tells himself, shutting his eyes and taking in a deep breath. _Let him be a prick, but do not engage him_ —

“Of course,” Lotor drawls. “His work suffers from one of the same things as Kolivan’s. Namely, their utter refusal to abstain from flirting with each other all over the acknowledgements, and the dedications, _and_ the endnotes, _aaaand_ the—”

“Oh, what the _fuck_ ,” Keith snaps. He cringes, hearing his own voice. Feels his cheeks flush hot and knows that he should shut up. But he can’t let this slide— “You really think that they should censor how much they love each other because _you’re_ lonely and miserable? The flirting in their books is _not_ that bad, you heartless fucking prick—”

“I simply think that it’s distracting and unprofessional. Their work is still exceptional and they provide better reading material than most of the other options one could find, but as a matter of preference? They could stop flirting with each other in their monographs, or at least they could stand to tone it down.” Leaning toward Keith with an absolutely nauseating smirk, Lotor purrs, “I had no idea that you felt so passionately about academic public displays of affection.”

“I _don’t_. Not generally.” Groaning, Keith pinches the bridge of his nose, then reaches for his Coke. “But Kolivan’s about twenty times the man _you’ll_ ever be. He already gets enough flak from students, and colleagues, and your fucking Father. Like Hell am I letting _you_ think you can get away with talking shit about him.”

With a huff, Lotor wrinkles his nose and narrows his eyes in a way that Keith can’t interpret. “You know, I used to say incredibly similar things about my so-called _fucking Father_.” Lifting his glass, he adds, “For your sake, _Keith_ , I hope that your filial piety is not so terribly misplaced.”

“You don’t even know what you’re _talking_ about.” Which is one of many reasons why Keith should take a deep breath, pick up his book and his Coke, and move to another stool. But none of the empty ones offer enough personal space, and Keith’s mouth decides to tack on, “Y’know, just because _you_ have shitty parents and fifty miles worth of Daddy issues? Doesn’t mean that Kolivan is anything like your Father.”

“Oh, no, far from it. Kolivan has a heart and insofar as I can tell from the memoir sections of _Building Mindscapes_ and _Failed Awakenings_? Far fewer borderline debilitating neuroses stemming from the House of Prežničar’s loss of status following the Russian Revolution.” Lotor clinks his ice cubes in an apparent attempt at _seeming_ unruffled. “That said, you have piqued my curiosity once more—”

“Does anything ever _not_ do that—”

“How exactly _do_ you know Kolivan, hmm?” Lotor’s smirk teases its way back onto his lips, if only slightly. “I can assume that the university is involved, but as you said, he hardly has the best reputation among the student body. Last I heard from Zethrid, he remains largely regarded as one of the most demanding professors, to be avoided as much as possible and at all costs.”

Despite knowing better than to keep handing Lotor what he wants like this, Keith rolls his eyes and groans. “People only think any of that about Kolivan because he doesn’t bend over fucking backwards, catering to their egos,” Keith says, closing up the book, since the pretense seems sort of silly, at this point. “He doesn’t bullshit students when they aren’t giving the work their best efforts. He doesn’t take any shit from them or give anyone free passes. He has actual standards and makes good on his promises to kick people out of class if they don’t mute their phones or do the reading. But because he doesn’t sugarcoat anything, people act like he’s a cold-blooded asshole.”

“All fair points. All things that I admired about him, when I was his student.” Lotor’s face falls when Keith doesn’t gasp or fly off the handle again. Pouting, he says, “You seem less upset by that revelation than I would have expected from you.”

“I already know that he knows you, smart-ass.” Which earns Keith a deeper pout, with an edge of confusion that makes him feel like he’s stepped on a dog’s tail without noticing. “Kolivan is my advisor at school, okay—”

“Are you _serious_?” Lotor huffs in the face of Keith nodding. “I was one of the last students to have him as an advisor. I was under the impression that he did not take any advisees after making Department Head.”

“He usually doesn’t. I had to work my ass off to earn that spot instead of being stuck with Thace. I didn’t just get it _handed_ to me, like you.”

Surprisingly, Lotor doesn’t argue with that (technically unsubstantiated) accusation.

Granted, it is _not_ surprising in the slightest that Lotor got Kolivan’s advisorship handed to him on a silver platter. Whether his parents particularly care about him or not, he’s rich and both of them have positions of influence at the university. They’re terrifying beyond all reason and by simply existing, they might terrify the staff in the admissions office so badly that they felt like they _had_ to pair Lotor up with someone as respected as Kolivan. Only the best for the wayward son of the Chemistry department’s Head and the Dean of Student Life. Anyone who dared to give him any less might fear some manner of retribution from one of the worst of all possible freak-shows.

Yet, Lotor only adjusts his elbow on the bar. He shifts his head so he can idly drum his fingertips on the apple of his cheek. Without raising any sort of objections in his own defense, Lotor sighs. It almost sounds like he’s tired, or maybe like he’s trying not to burn out on frustration. Then again, it’s harder to tell with Lotor than with most people, so both of Keith’s guesses are likely at least somewhat wrong. _At least_ somewhat.

He’d be more okay with accepting that if he could do it without Lotor sitting here and _watching_ him so closely. But Lotor stays quiet, and that’s already a massive improvement on his usual. If he doesn’t run his mouth again, then Keith could read in peace and let Lotor stay.

“Why the Blade of Marmora, then?” Lotor prods, as soon as Keith reaches for his book.

“Because I’m thinking of starting a rebel group of my own,” Keith deadpans, slouching onto both of his elbows and struggling not to hang his head. “Get Allura to come with because she has better people skills and she gets people motivated. Ask Pidge if she wants to do the technical stuff and ask Shay if she wants to help organize. Use some of our student printing allowance to xerox questionably laid-out zines. Operate out of the library’s basement and try to whittle away at your Father’s control over the school.”

“I ask out of curiosity, not out of judgment. Or certainly not any _negative_ judgment.” As if anticipating Keith’s objection, Lotor only pauses briefly before he adds, “I enjoyed my own phase of being exceptionally interested in the Marmora. My Father considers them, at best, thugs and terrorists. At worst, fraternizing, class-mixing traitors who sold out their own families and contributed to the erosion of traditional Galran order and discipline, and ultimately, to Daibazaal’s destruction.”

_And because Daddy wasn’t interested in putting up with you, reading about the Blades sounded like a good way to get his attention, huh?_

—Keith cringes into his Coke as soon as he recognizes that he’s thinking this. He might be right, but saying that would definitely start something and then, it would be Keith’s fault, pretty much entirely. Besides, Keith can’t say that he wouldn’t have tried something similar to get his Dad’s attention, had he ever been in Lotor’s shoes. No doubt, his Dad would’ve been better than Dean Zarkon without even trying — but Keith still would’ve done a lot to get Dad’s attention, if he hadn’t skipped out and left Keith with Aunt Hana.

Huffing over the rim of his glass, Keith takes a long, deep sip. No sense in brooding about what might’ve been, he guesses. No victory in holding it against Lotor, either, considering that he had nothing to do with it. Only thing to do, now that Keith’s gone and given Lotor enough of a taste for this conversation, is ride it out until he gets bored or has to go play his set. Picking a fight is one of the least conducive options currently available to Keith.

“Not for nothing,” he says, “but your Father’s opinion on the Blades sounds like him spouting a load of hyper-conservative garbage—”

“As per his usual, frankly—”

“Because as far as I can tell from the book and the little bit that’s come up in my classes, sometimes? It sounds more like, outside of Soviet expansion, tyranny and mismanagement of the Empire led to Daibazaal’s destruction more than anything else.”

“Also? People tend to resist having pogroms visited upon them,” Lotor says, far too lightly for the topic at hand.

Once he’s polished off his juice, he arches an eyebrow at Keith, then down at the hand he’s curling into a fist — but rather than snap or snarl or put up a fight, Lotor hunches in around himself. “I do not mean to make light of those acts of domestic terrorism and attempted ethnic cleansing, Keith. The late Victorian and early twentieth century rise of Galran nationalism helped fuel more violence against anyone but the so-called pure-blooded Galra. Some of the more extreme members of the Galran nationalist movements — several of whom were members of my Father’s family — even came up with highly specific scales for determining who among the pure Galra was more pure than whom—”

“And that, in turn, helped fuel internal tensions. Then, the House of Mireth made a deal with the Romanovs for help expelling or murdering the so-called, ‘lesser thans’ of Daibazaal. Except shit, they sold out everybody.” Keith shrugs in the face of Lotor furrowing his brow. “Then, the Soviet Union was born and they wanted to claim Daibazaal and steal its resources, and they invoke a loophole in the old agreement to justify invading and claiming the territory. Then, a fuck-ton of people who had understandable grudges with the House of Mireth turned around and _helped_ with that because they though, ‘Well, fuck, anything would be better than rule by the House of Mireth’—”

“Are you quite finished,” Lotor groans. “I do not need a display of how well you can _read_.”

“All I want to ask is…” Keith sighs and tries to get his mouth around the question without being _too_ accusatory about it. Without skirting _too_ close to the realm of Starting Some Shit with Lotor. Pushing his bangs back off his forehead, Keith bites out, “How can you talk about _literal attempted ethnic cleansing_ like that? Like they’re just… Like, you take the side of the people who fought back against them, but you’re still kinda making light of them?”

To his credit (Keith thinks), Lotor pauses long enough to give that question real thought. As he ponders whatever goes on inside his head, he ducks his chin and his cowlick droops low enough to hit his chin. If he notices that, then he doesn’t do anything about it. He doesn’t even blow at the thing; he only lets it hang there as if he’s completely fine. More confusingly, he rests on his palm so heavily that it gives Keith the feeling that Lotor might want to simply flop down on the bar and pillow his head on his forearms so he can take a nap. Worst of all, there’s nothing guarded or cagey about the crestfallen expression on his face.

True, Keith has no idea what that expression’s meant to be, aside from somber and sober and less-than-vaguely sad. But what little bit Keith _can_ read of Lotor’s face makes guilt start wriggling around Keith’s chest again. Before he can think to stop himself, Keith edges closer to Lotor and drops a hand onto his shoulder. He means to offer the jerk an out — tell him that it’s okay, and Keith didn’t mean to unwittingly kick him somewhere sensitive — but Lotor inhales sharply, and holds up his free hand like maybe he might say something.

Apparently, he only wanted Ricki’s attention, so he can order up a glass of water. Once he has it, though, he concedes that he sees Keith’s point, thanks to Keith spelling it out. That he can see how he might have sounded dismissive of the reality of Galran pogroms.

“Not that I imagine it makes much difference to you or anyone else,” Lotor says, rubbing at his temple. “But mine and Acxa’s therapist has decided that my off-putting way of discussing such things is… I don’t entirely know, some manner of pathetic self-defense mechanism, I suppose. Downplaying the greater-scale importance of these travesties and acts of violence because their full reality makes me feel emotionally threatened, or some similar sort of psychobabble.”

_That sounds like a pretty convenient excuse for being an asshole_ , Keith doesn’t allow himself to say.

He takes a moment to halt himself and try to relocate his center. Reminds himself that he doesn’t owe Lotor anything and decides against walking out on him when he’s acting so unlike his typical self. Helps himself to a few deep breaths and finally, when he’s ready, manages to ask—

“Do you want to tell me what that really _means_?” Not rolling his eyes shouldn’t feel like any serious accomplishment to Keith, and yet it does. “Because right now? It sounds kind of like, ‘I don’t appreciate people other than me having a right to exist.’”

“That makes sense as an interpretation. With my Father, you would be utterly correct.” Which isn’t what Keith asked, but Lotor only pauses long enough to flip his cowlick off his face again. “I told you, before, that my Father’s family is Galra. My Mother’s family, on the other hand? Is Altean.”

Keith frowns, and silently curses his inability to remember Honerva’s face that clearly. He remembers her white hair and her leathery, dark brown skin. He remembers cleaving to Kolivan’s side — edging behind him without properly hiding, because Kolivan told Keith not to cower too obviously, lest Honerva take it upon herself to needle him about it — and trying not to meet her eyes, whenever she got too close to them, at Thace’s party after he made tenure. He remembers that, even in modest heels, she looked about Keith’s height and nearly a foot shorter than her husband. He remembers Kolivan’s comparison of her to Baba Yaga and the way that he didn’t argue when Keith described her as, _“scary beyond all reason.”_

But fuck, though. For the life of him, Keith cannot pull up a mental image of what Honerva really looked like.

Either way, Lotor huffs as if he desperately wants to believe he doesn’t feel anything about this. “In most people’s minds, as far as alleged dilutions of _pure_ Galran stock go, one could do far worse than Altean blood — especially when my Mother comes from a former noble family herself. My Father believes that _Hag_ nerva is the only person on this sorry planet who deserves of any love at all, and without any of the tedious, ‘She is a credit to the Altean people, who are still not as strong and pure and hardy as the Galra’ nonsense that one might expect. The fact that he truly attempts to honor her heritage…”

He rolls his eyes, not at Keith and not even (as far as Keith can tell) at what he’s explaining. Lotor seemingly rolls his eyes without thinking about it, just as a reflex. “Has Shiro told you about the first time that he met my parents?”

Keith wrinkles his nose, confused. “Yeah, the thing where they made him chug the nunvil, right?”

“Yes, well. It is a perfect illustration of how my Father _uses_ his respect for her culture. Namely, he weaponizes it against anyone who dares to have a will of their own, but…” Lotor shrugs. “Had Shiro _not_ disclosed that to you, I would have needed to find a different example.”

“Because caring about Shiro’s boundaries is a thing that you’re actually doing now?” Keith should probably let it go, when Lotor nods. Instead, he tacks on, “And I’m supposed to believe you about that _why_ , exactly?”

Again, Lotor quirks his shoulders. “I do not _expect_ you to believe it, street rat. Were I in your position, I certainly wouldn’t. That does not, however, mean that I am lying about it.” Briefly, something flashes across his face and he looks around, lets his eyes dart everywhere he can, in search of who even knows what. Settling back into his unreadable slouch, though, Lotor says, “Strictly speaking, I should not even be trying to talk to you right now—”

“But you’ve never met a rule you didn’t want to break—”

“—Because Shiro requested that I kindly stay away from you, for both your sake _and_ mine—”

“And probably for _his_ , besides.” Not that Keith imagines Shiro would’ve gotten anywhere, admitting something like that to Lotor. If anything, trying to ask that he leave Keith alone as a favor to his ex-boyfriend would probably make Lotor want to bug Keith that much more.

Neither agreeing nor disagreeing with that assertion, Lotor tells him, “ _However_ , I had something specific in mind that I wished to express to you. Something that is of great importance to me. Then, you turned out to actually know _anything_ about Galran history — which is a rare treat, outside of my band-mates and my unfortunate blood-family. Tacit promise to Shiro or not, I cannot help but indulge in something like this, when the opportunity presents itself.”

Keith has to rub his thumb against his curled-up fingers so he can resist his impulse to shrug again. “I wouldn’t call myself an expert or anything,” he says. “I just like studying history. And Galran history is interesting. Besides, Antok and Kolivan both have it as one of their major research interests. I’d have to be an _idiot_ to pass up the chance to learn from them, right?”

“Distinctly so, darling. And true, Keith, you may be _impulsive_ , but you are _no_ idiot.”

“Uh, thank you for that? I think?”

“It is a genuine compliment, Keith. Accept it graciously. Or don’t, if you would rather not. You would not be worth the effort of a conversation if I could control what you do.” The corners of Lotor’s mouth twist up, and vaguely, Keith wonders if that’s supposed to be a _smile_. “Either way, I believe that I owe you an actual answer to your question. Unless you would try to piece it together for yourself? Why _do_ I engage in any self-protection when discussing the history of ethnic pogroms in Daibazaal? Come, apply your cleverness and thrill me…”

The way he trails off makes his challenge pretty explicit. In the back of his mind, Keith gets a dim, nagging thought that protests against taking Lotor up on any tests like this ever again, as long as they are forced to deal with each other or simply exist within each other’s general vicinity. The last time Lotor tried to bait Keith into something, he seemed to want a fast-pass ticket into Keith’s pants. The time before that, he _definitely_ wanted that fast-pass ticket and he tried to buy it with four shots of his pretentious douche Patrón. Asking if Keith can puzzle out an answer might not _seem_ like a trap or a way to get Keith into bed with him, but there’s no way of telling with Lotor. The fact that he agreed not to bother Keith too much doesn’t mean that he’s above trying to sleep with Keith, in the hopes of making Shiro miserable.

On the other hand, Lotor threw down the glove in a way that asked Keith to prove his wits. If he were flirting, he would likely be far less obvious about it, and Keith _cannot_ walk away from defending claims about his intelligence. Taking a deep breath, Keith curls his hands around his nearly-empty glass and shuts his eyes. Perfect — he can’t tune out the band who’s currently on-stage, but he clears out some of the external stimuli, so he has an easier time of focusing on the current question.

“Well, it’s kinda like you said, right? You aren’t _pure_ Galra,” he starts with the most obvious point available to him. “As far as I know, Galran-Altean marriages weren’t _that_ common, and most of them were among the upper classes and the nobility. But lower-class people of mixed Galran and Altean heritage would’ve been fair game in some of the pogroms — especially after the empires started competing for who could establish more colonies. So, if you’d been alive back then, you’d’ve had to handle other nobles thinking less of you and trying to challenge any of your claims to territory or authority—”

“In fairness, that would have been an issue for anyone from a noble family, regardless of their heritage. Personal shows of strength and victory through honorable right of combat trump the laws of blood and inheritance, in traditional Galran culture—”

“—But then, you only wouldn’t have been on the chopping block in the anti-Altean pogroms by virtue of your family’s status, which? I mean, that’s like…” Keith musses a hand over his own hair, as if this might make his brain stop tripping up on the words he wants. “You have the whole, ‘Honorable right of combat’ thing, yeah? So, other nobles would’ve been, like? I don’t know, this is more speculative than not, but? They could’ve tried to impugn your right to have anything at all, or to exist while having a mixed ethnic background, because you got part of your protection from your blood, your money, and your titles. Not the ones you _earned for yourself_ , but the ones that were given to you by birth—”

“Look at you go,” Lotor chimes in, clearly smiling at Keith with no obvious endgame anywhere in sight.

“—So, I don’t know, it’s like?” Sighing heavily, Keith leans his head back, stretches out his neck. It doesn’t really help, but the sensation helps get him grounded without really hurting anything. “It’s kind of like… Yeah, if you’d been there, you might not have been an actual, direct victim of the pogroms? But you’d still have gotten attacked for part of your heritage, and had people telling you that it made you weak and worthless, especially compared to so-called _pure-blood_ Galra—”

“Oh, plenty of _pure_ Galra still do that, to this day.” Lotor glances around the bar again before leaning in to explain, “Acxa, Ezor, Narti, Zethrid, and I all hear such things from so-called pure-blood Galra. Even the ones who never would have _dared_ , back in old Daibazaal, considering the sorts of families that they come from, normally. Exiled criminals. Traitors, outcasts from their families, and deserters from the Galran military. The poor and serving-class people who managed to scrounge enough money and left Daibazaal _before_ the Russian Revolution because they believed that they could reinvent themselves in the United States, where no one recognized their family names—”

“You _realize_ that you’re managing to be kind of an elitist prick while telling me about people giving you shit for only being half-Galra, right?” Keith quirks an eyebrow so high, he feels like Mr. Fucking Spock, but Hell with it, Lotor’s earning that kind of reaction. “Like, I’m not saying that it’s okay for them to pull stunts like that with you or the ladies in your band. But that’s no excuse for you to hold _their_ families against them.”

Knotting up his brow, Lotor blinks at Keith as if he just started spouting off in Ancient Greek. In fairness, though, Lotor sighs and gets an uncommonly pensive look about him, rather than simply biting back.

“I was trying to provide a sense of _context_ ,” he says, and Keith can’t decide how believable or not this sounds. “My conscious idea was not to denigrate mine or my friends’ harassers for their lineage, as they cannot help it any more than anyone else can do. I wished to emphasize how my name and familial lineage afford me little to no protection from the judgment and condemnation of some of my fellow Galra.”

Keith muses, _Oh, yeah, I am so sure—_

“However, I suppose that I could have chosen a better way to make that point,” Lotor goes on, and the weirdest thing is that he sounds so earnest, Keith doesn’t _want_ to question him. “For example, I could have told you about this… I don’t know that I would call him a former _protege_ of my Father’s, considering several aspects of their relationship? But he has a mother of Galran noble stock, and a Galra father whose ancestor came to Ellis Island — and later moved to Chicago — after deserting his platoon during one of the small-scale wars over the Galran Empire’s colonial outposts in Olkarion—”

“And this guy is an absolute fucking prize, right,” Keith guesses. Admittedly, it’s based only on Dean Zarkon’s involvement and the fact that Maurice was Galra and lived in Chicago — but it feels like a pretty solid conjecture. “And being such a prize, he doesn’t want to insult your Father because there’s some gratitude between them or whatever, but he’s totally fine with insulting _you_?”

Lotor gives him a throaty, noncommittal noise. “Yes and no? In fairness, he might also treat me differently, were our paths to cross today. Most of our dealings with each other took place over a decade ago, when I was still in prep school in Chicago, and my Father sometimes had him keeping tabs on me. During that time, he insulted and berated me as often as he praised me.” Twirling his finger in his cowlick, Lotor rolls his eyes. “Granted, his praise generally makes me feel the need to take a shower in hydrochloric acid until I stop feeling so _filthy_ —”

“Is that just a requirement to be Galra and live in Chicago? Being cruel and some kind of non-literal bastard?”

“Oh, far from it. Acxa’s blood-family lives there as well and many of her cousins are so kind as to be unnerving.” Even so, Lotor frowns and his blue eyes darken into storms as he adds, “Yurak would, however, likely get along quite well with Shiro’s Maurice. And Yurak’s father has more in common with both of them than the son would care to admit. The only reason why I hate Yurak somewhat less than I do his father is that Yurak generally kept his attentions focused on my own actions, whether he offered me approval or vitriol.”

He pauses to throw back what’s left of his water. “His father, on the other hand? More than once called me a, ‘filthy half-breed’ and worse, as long as _my_ Father was not around to hear him do it. Never mind how proud he was of his great-grandfather for abandoning his homeland and giving in to cowardice—”

“He was running from participating in _colonialism_ —”

“As far as I ever heard from Yurak and his mother, said ancestor had no moral objections to the colonialism or to the Empire’s exploitation of the Olkari, Keith. He simply wanted to run from an obligation to which he had willingly committed himself in order to save his own skin. Even knowing that _Victory Or Death_ was not simply a figure of speech to the Galran military _before_ he enlisted, he wanted to escape it — to say nothing of how he chose to abandon his _family_.”

A moment’s quiet, and then a shrug. “Of course, I support self-preservation, but there are certain moral and ethical lines that I consider _absolutely_ sacrosanct. Blood may not be the sole definition of family, in my view, but when one _does_ find a family, leaving them in such a manner is unforgivable.”

With a sigh, Lotor pauses as if he expects Keith to pipe up. When Keith doesn’t, he arches an eyebrow as if to ask, _“Why are you disregarding this chance to steal several words in edgewise?”_

Which is a fair enough question, sure. But Keith’s brain is giving him that static feeling all over again, with only one clear thought repeating itself amidst the mess: _What the fuck is going on, Lotor is not allowed to make so much goddamn sense like this._

Taking pity on Keith, Lotor decides to push them forward and says, “Anyway, the salient point of this example is that I do not appreciate being called a, ‘worthless _vokri_ ’ by someone who praises the alleged integrity of a literal traitor, who abandoned his family.”

Keith should probably focus on something else, but instead, he asks, “What does that word mean? _Vokri_? I mean, I’ve heard it around the department before but Kolivan usually… The word upsets him more than most things even can, so I haven’t asked him about it?”

“Speaking literally? The word means trash. Garbage. Dreck, detritus, junk, rubbish, filth, and so on.” Casting another dark look Keith’s way, though, Lotor clarifies, “Speaking colloquially, however? It is often thrown around as a shortened form of _vokrimeša_ , one of the worst terms that the Galran tongue has for referring to someone of mixed, not-entirely-Galran ancestry. For someone like _me_.”

_Maybe like me, too_ — but digging his thumb into one of his knuckles, Keith tries to banish that thought.

“As for Kolivan, specifically…” Lotor shrugs. “Take your pick. On one hand, you have the way that he generally wants Galran culture to evolve and become better than it has been, and as such objects to brazen displays of its worst parts. On the other hand, you have the fact that his husband’s family is mixed Galran, Balmeran, and Ashkenazi Jewish. Then, there are likely still more potential explanations that I do not know, offhand.”

Keith nods. Mutters his thanks. “Good thing that you got him for an advisor instead of Raht or Prorok, then, huh?”

“Decidedly.” For a moment, Lotor goes quiet, tapping his fingers on the bar. Then, like a verbal flash of lightning, he tacks on, “Do you have anything else to add to your answer? Or do you feel like it has reached completion?”

“I don’t think so?” Keith shakes his head, but it’s more to jog his brain back into more focused action. “You’re half-Altean. There were anti-Altean pogroms, back in old Daibazaal. You would have dodged those, most likely, but you’d still have to deal with part of your heritage being denigrated and used as an excuse to attack and torture and murder people. That’s why they’re so personal to you that you try to downplay their importance?”

“ _Nearly_ perfect, street rat.” Despite Keith apparently missing at least one of the marks in this analysis, Lotor gives him a look that’s somewhere between an approving smile and a dangerous smirk. “The part you failed to get involves specific knowledge that you might not have—”

“So, what is it?”

“It concerns the involvement of the House of Mireth — and not exclusively with regard to how they sold Daibazaal out to Russia.” The smile fades, starts wobbling and looking obviously fake in a way that wouldn’t surprise Keith on almost anybody else. On Lotor, though, this attempt at feigning happiness looks… _wrong_. Completely out of place, especially relative to the larger-than-life façade he seems to wish he really were.

Keith’s confusion, however, does not stop Lotor from explaining, “Although my ancestors were hardly alone in supporting and sometimes actively organizing or engaging in pogroms, they had a larger role than most of the official histories would like to claim. Additionally, they did very little to calm the storm or help anyone but themselves, as the family who ruled Daibazaal during the heyday of the pogroms and Galran nationalism. All of which would be horrible enough on its own _without_ several members of my Father’s family — sometimes including him — praising the leadership and the actions of ancestors whom we ought to revile. That list also tends to include ancestors who specifically hated the Altean people, and while my Mother usually has no spare capacity to be bothered about anything?”

“You, obviously, do care about that shit. And you care about how much your family _doesn’t_ care.”

Which gets a nod from Lotor, but Keith doesn’t feel good about that. Not when Lotor’s reminding him of a shelter-rescue cat who can’t entirely decide whether or not he wants to ask for someone to please come pet him, instead of pulling out any of his more typical behaviors.

So, by way of giving back the way he’s gotten because that’s called being _fair_ , Keith tells him, “It’s kind of like some of the assholes I grew up with, back in Texas. Like, no, Bryce — one of my foster brothers. But, no, Bryce, I _don’t_ think the Confederates were cool, and I _don’t_ think it was awesome that one of your ancestors fought for the Confederacy. Why the fuck do _you_ think that it was cool to fight and die in the name of _slavery_?”

“I would assume that he thought so for the same reason that my old prep school rival thought that I would ever allow him to best me in anything.” Lotor huffs and it almost manages to be a chuckle. “Namely, that my Throk and your Bryce are idiots of the highest order.”

Keith shrugs and can’t deny that this is accurate. He’s willing to drop the conversation here — but instead, Lotor taps on the cover of Keith’s book.

“So, why the Blade of Marmora, then? What interests you so much about them?” Both eyebrows arched, he refuses to wilt in the face of Keith staring at him, unimpressed. “I opened up to you, street rat, and took _your_ questions in my stride when I had not planned to discuss any of this with you. In light of that, you can satiate my curiosity and tell me why you’re reading about the Marmora.”

“I don’t believe that your curiosity is _ever_ satiated, Prince Loser.” Still, he has a good enough point about the fairness here, Keith guesses. Pushing his hair off of his face again, he takes a deep breath and steels himself so he can get through this. “Based on what I’ve read so far? I would’ve gotten interested in the Blade of Marmora on my own, at some point, anyway. But circumstances sort of forced the situation when I kinda went to Kolivan and it wasn’t _really_ like? But then again, I’m…”

Shrugging is almost certainly not the right way to react in this situation. Some part of Keith wants someone to yell at him for acting so blasé while his body feels like it’s being set on fire from the inside out. But fair is fair, and he owes Lotor something to even the playing field, after the purple-haired asshole aired his own issues without simply taking them out on Keith.

“I went to Kolivan for some help with something,” Keith explains. “With identifying something that I have. Which I’ve had for my whole life. It’s sorta, like… It’s a family heirloom, I guess, and it’s complicated and personal, and—”

“So is my relationship to Galran history, and I aired that. For what it’s worth, however…” Holding up his right hand, Lotor tells Keith, “I solemnly swear that I will neither judge you nor get you into any trouble for whatever you are about to disclose.”

“It’s a _knife_ , okay? A pure _luxite_ -bladed knife. It’s one of the only things that I have of my Mom’s, and—” Keith muffles a groan behind his hand, then tries to take deep breaths and calm himself. “I went up to Kolivan’s office and I showed it to him. He told me that it’s not only a luxite blade, it also has a bunch of symbols on it that clearly identify it as one of the Marmora’s knives. He mentioned that he and Antok have their own luxite blades—”

“Oh, they do,” Lotor offers offhandedly. “I have not personally _seen_ said luxite knives, but… Antok comes from the House of Vpraševall, and Kolivan from the House of Prežničar. Antok’s ancestors helped to _found_ the Blade of Marmora, and Kolivan’s were some of its earliest members.”

Snickering at whatever expression Keith’s face decides to make on his behalf, Lotor clarifies, “I _told_ you, street rat. The book that you are currently reading is a decent introductory-level text on the Marmora. If you want the more specific stories, the hard facts that you might find more intriguing, however? You will need to ask Antok for a copy of his second book on the Blades.”

“Okay, but that seems like a pretty big thing to _not tell me_ , considering what we’re talking—”

“In defense of your advisor, you had this discussion _in his office_. At the university.” Rolling his eyes almost makes Lotor seem more like himself, but then, he’s far too patient while explaining, “My Father rather limits the faculty’s ability to discuss the Blades on campus in an _academic_ context, much less in a _personal_ one. If someone had overheard, Kolivan could have gotten himself into a terrible mess of trouble over what my Father would call an endorsement of terrorism—”

“Even though we’re talking about a rebel group with some pretty valid grievances—”

“Exactly, darling—”

“Well, anyway? Kolivan told me to read Antok’s book before we could talk some more about this.” Keith leans his head back again, taking a deep breath so he won’t unload on Lotor about the _other_ part of his and Kolivan’s agreement. “Then, there’s how he looked at the symbols on the blade and out of nowhere? He drops it on me that my parents _didn’t_ just pull my middle name out of their asses while they were drunk—”

“What did they middle-name you?” Lotor hums, faux-pensively. “My guess would be Aloysius. It would suit you.”

“It’s _not_ Aloysius. That’s actually a real name. I wouldn’t’ve spent my whole life until this past Monday thinking they were just dumb, shit-faced twenty-somethings if they’d middle-named my _Aloysius_.” Keith wants to watch Lotor more closely, but he can’t look him in the eye while admitting, “It’s _Sarkance_ , okay? My parents middle-named me Sarkance. Which Kolivan _says_ is a big deal, but if it’s so important, why isn’t it in Antok’s book more often? And why am I only hearing about it _now_?”

Rather than bite back with some witty-and/or-obnoxious repartee, Lotor instead falls silent. When Keith manages to look up at him again, the asshole spectacularly fails to come off like any kind of asshole. As far as Keith can tell, a good deal of Lotor’s veneer has been stripped away, and he’s sitting here, blinking at Keith with wide eyes and a furrowed brow and a frown that’s so uncharacteristically soft, it seems like it has no business being on his face. The most fiery part of Keith — the one that, after all this time, he still associates with his lioness, his Red — it flares up, yelling at him not to let Lotor pity him like that, because he doesn’t _need_ Lotor’s fucking pity—

Except Keith can’t sustain that outrage long enough to act on it. Aside from the confusion that swoops in to cloud his judgment, another part of him recognizes that Lotor’s expression does not, upon inspection, resemble pity. There’s sadness to it, but it isn’t condescending. If anything, Lotor looks like he’s exposing his metaphorical soft underbelly.

“You…” he says, so softly that Keith nearly misses it. “You are from the House of Sarkance?”

“I don’t know, maybe? Kolivan apparently thought so, but—”

“So, you _are_ Galra. At least _partially_ Galra?”

“I. Don’t. _Know_ ,” Keith bites out again. “I _might_ be? And Kolivan thought I was — he knows my middle name, and I guess he thought that I _knew_? But my Mom never said, she just left me her knife, and it isn’t like I can _ask_ her when—”

Keith cuts himself off, blinking at the palm and the long, pale fingers thrust firmly into his personal space. Impatiently motioning for Keith to hand him something, Lotor holds his hand underneath Keith’s chin. He rolls his eyes when Keith shakes his head uncomprehendingly.

“Your _phone_ , street rat,” Lotor drawls. “Give. Me. Your. Phone.”

“What’re you gonna do to it?” Keith pulls it out, but doesn’t hand it over.

Unruffled, Lotor grabs it away. He only hands it back when he stumbles on the pass-code lock.

“I initially wanted to _thank_ you for something,” he huffs. “You do not ever need to trust me or like me, Keith. We do not need to become friends, and I understand if you would prefer not to strive for that with me. But Kolivan, brilliant though he undeniably is, _cannot_ be your sole guide to Galran culture. If nothing else, he does not _truly_ understand what it means to be of _mixed_ Galran heritage because he _isn’t_. Let me have your number and please, allow me to give you _mine_. I can provide you with my friends’ as well—”

“I already got Zethrid’s and Acxa’s tonight—”

“Fine. I can provide you with _Ezor’s_ number, if you like.” Looking Keith dead in the eye, Lotor holds out his palm again. “If it would offer you some comfort, I will agree to whatever conditions you like about how I may or may not use your number. All that I wish to do is _help_ —”

“But I don’t even _know_ if I’m part-Galra, yet—”

“Street rat. _Keith. **Please**._ You own a family heirloom luxite blade and your middle name comes from one of the earliest Galran noble houses to join the Blade of Marmora,” Lotor says as if he can’t believe that this needs to be explained to anybody. “If you are _not_ part-Galra, then I will stop sexually propositioning you and your boyfriend—”

“ _What_ boyfriend?” Flushing scarlet, Keith hunches in on himself and hands over his phone, hoping this will distract Lotor somewhat. “I mean, you should stop propositioning me and Shiro anyway, because neither of us is _interested_ —”

“He would also be the _boyfriend_ to whom I am referring.” Lotor doesn’t look up from the screen while tapping out his number and Ezor’s. “When I had a moment with him earlier, he seemed to be in his, ‘I had sex last night and thoroughly enjoyed myself’ mood. Then, there are the hickeys that he’s flaunting and your mutual interest in each other. Unless he slept with someone else last night, I would assume that Shiro is your boyfriend.”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but yeah, fine. I fucked him last night—”

“Oh, _jealous_ ,” Lotor croons. “I appreciate his sexual versatility, but he is _such_ an enthusiastic bottom—”

“ _Not that it is any of your business, **okay** , Prince Loser—_”

“I never said that it _was_ my business. Merely that I am _interested_ in it, regardless—”

“But he still isn’t _quite_ my boyfriend or not, okay? It’s…” Keith grumbles and preemptively rolls his eyes, already hates how stupid he’s going to sound right now. But even so, he makes himself bite out, “It’s _complicated_. ‘Boyfriend’ is a really loaded word for both of us, and we haven’t _talked_ about it yet, and I don’t even—”

“ _Fine_ , then.” Lotor shoves the phone into Keith’s chest. “If you are _not_ part-Galra, then I will stop sexually propositioning you and your _beloved_. Is that term any better? Any _less_ offensive to you and your nonsensical hand-wringing over the word, _‘boyfriend’_?”

Dimly, it occurs to Keith that he could argue with some of Lotor’s accusations. He could make a point about how he isn’t _offended_ at Shiro being called his boyfriend; he doesn’t want to rush into anything else when he and Shiro might be rushing things enough already. He could try to tell Lotor that he doesn’t care if it sounds like nonsense, because the word _“boyfriend”_ means something serious to him. As far as Keith can tell, it means something serious to Shiro, too. Not that Keith isn’t serious about Shiro, or that he thinks Shiro isn’t serious about him — but after all the things that they’ve fucked up by assuming the wrong things, they’d need to talk about that word before throwing it around like it’s a freaking Frisbee.

Besides, there is a level here, where _“boyfriend”_ feels like a cheese grater going at Keith’s nerves. He’d feel guilty about that, except—

“Actually, _‘beloved’_ works perfectly,” Keith says, and means it. “Way better term for me and Shiro than calling him my fucking _‘boyfriend.’_ Don’t ask me why, I don’t know. But yeah, if you have to put a word on it? Then he’s my beloved. And he might wanna call me something endearingly cheesy like his, ‘sweetheart’ or, ‘kitten’—”

“As though, ‘beloved’ is any less emotionally overwrought than _‘sweetheart’_?” Lotor points out, slipping right back into his usual sharpened knife, sarcastic tones. It’s weirdly comforting, in a way, that he’s acting so familiar — even his familiar behaviors are largely douchey. “If I may say, street rat? You appear to have a considerable amount of serious emotional damage.”

“You appear to be observant,” Keith snarks back. “Also? It takes one to know one.”

“Very true.” Lotor throws that out there, seemingly without thought, and glances toward the stage. “Either way, thank you for entertaining me while I waited until my turn. As for what I _intended_ to do more quickly, until _you_ decided to be difficult…” Flipping his cowlick off his face, he turns back to Keith and tells him, “Acxa mentioned to me that you were the one who helped her get back to Ezor and Narti at the riot, back in February—”

“Look, it wasn’t really a big deal, okay, and she helped me as much as I did her, and—”

Lotor holds up a hand, and Keith shuts up. Nods at him to please go on.

“It may not have been a big deal to _you_ , when you helped her, but it means a _great_ deal to me.” He tucks the cowlick behind his ear so it can’t keep making a nuisance of itself. “Even without the context of how _we_ have treated each other, or how we were not aware of each other’s existence in February, it means the world and more to me that you helped Acxa.”

Lotor takes a deep breath to steady himself, then fixes his gaze directly on Keith. “Outside of certain sexual double entendres, I am _not_ an easy person, street rat. To befriend, to love, to spend _any_ extended amounts of time with, period. _Most_ people don’t like me. In several cases, that works out well enough because I tend not to like them very much, either. Too often, however, I _do_ enjoy someone and nevertheless let them down or make them run. Our mutual romantic entanglement is the best boyfriend I have ever had, and despite the mistaken beliefs I have spent the past six months clinging to for dear life? Shiro maintains that he did not stop loving me, but that he dislikes the person he acts like when we’re together and that being with me is actively detrimental to his recovery and to his sobriety.”

While Lotor pauses, Keith bites back several retorts about how he knows this already because he and Shiro have talked about it. Maybe not the parts specific to Lotor’s dealings with other people, but definitely the part that’s most relevant to Keith. In lieu of running his mouth and potentially doing a good deal more damage than he would like — and at the risk of Lotor very possibly misconstruing things — Keith reaches out to gently squeeze his elbow.

It takes Lotor a moment — to register what’s going on, or maybe to process it — but he nods that the touch is okay.

“In all that I have dealt with or survived,” he goes on, “there have been only a few constants, most of which have been less than ideal. Since she and I were children, Acxa and her friendship have been the only _good_ constants in my life. She is more family to me than most of my blood relatives, often including my parents. I _know_ that you did not intend to help save her as a favor to anyone. I _realize_ that you helped her because, even though she was a stranger to you, she was there and she needed help. I _understand_ that, because you are a better person than I am, you did not help her with the hope of a reward, and if it makes you uncomfortable, then I am perfectly content _not_ to reward you. That would be infinitely easier for me, and I would not need to explain to your _beloved_ why I am ignoring his request that I leave you alone—”

Keith nods, and keeps it to himself, how he starts thinking, _You’re gonna have to explain that to him anyway, if you seriously want to let me join your ragtag bunch of part-Galra weirdos._

“However, regardless of what you want or don’t…” Huffing, Lotor shakes out of Keith’s grip and extends a hand. He doesn’t pick up again until he has Keith’s hand wrapped up in his own. “You helped keep alive my best friend, my _migadi_. Whatever that means to you, Keith, I take it very seriously. Offering you a potential point of non-Kolivan connection to Galran culture is as much for me as it is for you, so I do not count it toward my thanks. But if there is ever anything that I can do for you, by way of expressing my gratitude? Make it known, I will see it done.”

“Can you _stop_ sexually propositioning me and Shiro,” comes out before Keith can think of anything else to say.

Letting go of Keith’s hand, Lotor purses his lips and sighs. “I can make an _effort_? But I made that bet to express how unlikely I think it is that you are _not_ part-Galra, because much of my innuendo and attempted solicitations come out when I get caught in up in the moment—”

“Fine, it can be a work-in-progress, then. Making _any_ effort is a great place to start.” Curling his hand around his book, Keith can’t stop himself from blurting out another idea: “Can you sneak me backstage, maybe? So I can give Shiro a good luck kiss before their set?”

At first, Lotor blinks at Keith in palpable confusion.

Not a moment later, though, he eases himself off his stool. “For your future reference? Traditionally, when another Galra offers you a sign of their gratitude, you are meant to present them with a _challenge_. As in, _not_ something so bloody simple as getting you backstage.”

Regardless, Keith stays close behind Lotor as they weave through the crowd. “Working on your unwanted sexual propositions can be the challenge,” he supposes. “Enabling my good luck kiss for Shiro is just you doing something nice for the benefit of someone other than yourself.”

Lotor makes a noise like a half-baked _ugh_. “Do not expect it to last, street rat.”

“Literally never would have, Prince Loser.” As they slip into a long, dark corridor — the sort that Keith generally sees in horror movies more than real life — he’s glad Lotor can’t see that he’s a bit softer about rolling his eyes than usual. Tonight’s been more than interesting enough, as is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, it’s been feeling weird that this particular installment of the larger story is ending after the next chapter…… but then I remember that there’s actually a fuck-ton of story left that I want to write, and the endpoint of this story is a mix between, “My desperate attempt to try and impose some semblance of structure on this giant mess without making myself feel stifled because having guideposts helps me write as much as having freedom does, but having too much of either makes me feel lost and scared and confused,” and “An arbitrary place that feels like a good, (more or less) organically occurring spot for me to breaking things off before starting up the next part in a new fic [title TBD], so that I don’t end up drowning with more than 500k in one fic and digging myself a rabbit hole of anxiety, every time I look at it.”
> 
> It still feels kinda weird that this particular installment is almost done, but in the meantime: this has been chapter 23, and I hope to see y’all next time, on the same Bat-Channel. ♡


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> —Now that we’ve reached this installment’s final chapter, I still haven’t entirely wrapped my brain around that fact. I feel like I should have more to say here. Sadly, I’m coming up woefully blank because this still feels so very surreal that I’m afraid I’ll wake up tomorrow and I’ll have my google-doc of this chapter open in a tab, waiting for me to finish it.
> 
> Also, since it didn’t fit into the endnotes: [a shameless plug for my tumblr](http://amorremanet.tumblr.com), where I might be slow to reply because I get flustered and the mobile app hasn’t sent me push notifications since mid-December 2017 — but I’m there and pretty much always happy to yell about this fic.

Galaxy Garrison’s victory at Battle of the Bands is a narrow one, but only three things about the night surprise Keith any.

The first big surprise comes during The Ultraviolents’ set, in the form of them more than living up to how they sounded during their sound-check. Maybe they’ll never be Keith’s favorite band, with such unrelentingly heavy music (not quite the sonic equivalent of how Allura swears a migraine feels, but close enough to that for Keith) and so many songs about dying (four of the six that they play use death-related metaphors, and two of said four express what sure sounds like suicidal ideation). Even so, Keith can’t deny that The Ultraviolents know their way around their respective instruments more than well enough.

The second big surprise comes when Galaxy Garrison wins: Lotor shakes Shiro’s hand in warm congratulations, and spectacularly fails to throw a temper tantrum. Whether or not that’s due to having his band-mates around, Keith couldn’t guess. Maybe Lotor really _is_ working on getting to be less of an asshole. Keith can surely hope so. If nothing else, it might make tolerating Lotor ever-so-slightly easier, and if he isn’t going away in the near future, then being better able to tolerate him would hopefully mean that Keith gets fewer headaches from him. He’d appreciate reality giving him that kind of breather.

The third surprise comes sprouting from one of the things about the evening that Keith most expected, and it doesn’t truly catch up with Keith until he and Shiro are finally back in Shiro’s room after the show. By the time he’s staring it down, Keith can’t pretend that there it didn’t build up through the course of the night.

Everything about the evening’s final surprise starts with how much Hunk, Lance, Pidge, and Shiro would put into playing their set. Even without the competitive aspect, they seemed to throw themselves headlong into playing their last show, and Keith can’t imagine that any of them would dare back down — especially not when there’s a risk of losing to several bands who suck, one that’s decent but isn’t on their level, or The Ultraviolents, who have the collective skill and charisma to more than keep up with Galaxy Garrison, but who nevertheless include Lotor among their ranks and for that simple reason, cannot be allowed to win.

The four of them give what looks like their best efforts to every song that they pull out tonight. Pidge and Lance hit their cues without throwing each other off. More than once, Keith squints toward the stage and could swear that Pidge has her eyes closed, that she’s getting swept up in the emotions of the songs and channeling them through her fingertips and onto the keys. Behind the drum-kit, Hunk might be easy for most people to miss: dedicated and evocative and on-tempo as ever, he supports each song without overwhelming anybody else or getting up to any shenanigans that could distract from his band-mates. His big moment comes while Shiro’s adjusting his guitar’s strings and Lance tries to keep the audience entertained with banter.

When Shiro nods that he’s ready to go, Lance beams like this is what he’s been waiting for, more than anything else about tonight.

“Anyway, this next number is one that we’ve played a bunch of times before,” he crows at the crowd. “I know a bunch of you know the song and love it — but we’re shaking things up a bit tonight! See, I wrote this one, and I’m making Shiro sing back-up for once—”

“He _offered_ to let you take the lead,” Pidge pipes up into her mic. “ _You_ wanted to keep hiding behind—”

“No time for your version of the story, Pidge!” Lance waves a dismissive hand in her direction, then grins like he thinks he’s Giacomo fucking Casanova. “So, this one is a Lancey-Lance original, and I’m really proud of it, so if you hate it, then pretend to like it. Especially since I wrote it for somebody really special, who only finally figured out how really special he is last night—”

With a wolf-whistle, Lance steps aside and points back at the drum-kit. “Hunkules, what’s good!”

Which, in turn, makes Hunk give Lance a grin and an _aww, shucks_ blush. But he recovers enough to snicker and half-deadpan, “If you want me to start the song, you’re gonna need to use your words, buddy. You sure used a _lot_ of them last night, I know that you can do it.”

Lance whines — and flushes pink himself when the audience laughs at this — but he relents enough to sigh and say, “Please, Hunk, will you set the tempo so we can play the next number? The one that I wrote for you, specifically, because you’re smart and sexy and funny and I love you more than anybody?”

It’s a sweet moment to watch, but even as they launch into the song, Keith can’t imagine that it’s an easy one for either Hunk or Lance. At least, he wouldn’t be able to get through a moment like that without feeling like he wanted to crawl out of his own skin, which is one of the many reasons why being anything in the ballpark of a rock-star sounds like something that Keith never wants to do for himself. Good for Hunk, Lance, Pidge, and Shiro that they can enjoy themselves with that much attention and pressure shoved onto their shoulders, though. Their music’s more than worth it, and their rapport as a band helps make the show better than it would’ve been solely by virtue of how well they play their instruments.

Not that this makes anything especially easy for any of them, though. It takes energy to play a set on stage, especially when they have something to prove and a contest to win. Even though they only have six songs tonight, getting through them and performing so intensely must be draining. The fact that any of them can keep playing as if they aren’t flagging seems, to Keith, like a feat that’s more than enough reason why the four of them should get considered for admission to a proper superhero team. If they lived in a reality with literal superheroes, that is, and at least Shiro is probably very glad that they don’t.

Not that Keith intends to focus on Shiro to the others’ detriment or at the cost of ignoring them, but as the four of them keep playing, Keith can’t help himself. Aside from the fact that he has a particularly vested interest in Shiro that he doesn’t have in Hunk, or Lance, or Pidge. Friends or not, no matter how much Keith wants to trust them and let them into his life, they still aren’t Shiro. No matter what happens in the future, Keith knows himself well enough to know that he’ll never love them in the same way that he loves Shiro.

Besides, on a shallower, baser level, Keith can’t look at their necks and see the hickeys that he left behind last night. Glancing toward Hunk when he chimes into between-song banter gets Keith a warm feeling like he has sunshine in his chest by virtue of Hunk’s smile being just that beautiful and just that welcoming. Watching Lance nearly trip himself over the wire attached to Shiro’s pedal, Keith gets a smirk and allows himself a snicker when Lance saves himself from toppling over. One time, Pidge catches Keith watching and throws a wild grin over her shoulder at him — but as rewarding, as _happy_ , as those moments let Keith feel, they don’t give Keith the same rush of pride as looking at Shiro, seeing how the spotlights bring out the marks on his tawny skin and how he flaunts that necklace of reminders of who fucked him good last night.

But as Lance’s song for Hunk goes on, Keith can’t help noticing that Shiro seems somewhat off-kilter. The audience doesn’t seem to spot anything. Or if they do, then Keith can’t tell from here. He’s guessing based on how much they cheer for Galaxy Garrison, and at the moment, most of that adulation is focused on Lance — rightfully so, since this song is _his_ baby and apparently, it’s his first time singing lead vocals on it. Aside from that understandable reason to be distracted, the throng of onlookers has a different view of Shiro than Keith does, and for all Keith knows, they might well believe that Shiro’s grin is totally in earnest. No doubt, he wants them to believe that, and when a victory might be on the line if they don’t buy what Shiro’s selling, Keith can’t blame him for wanting to hide any pain.

This idea doesn’t ease up how much Keith wants to run over to Shiro and yank him down into a kiss by way of saying that he’s here and everything’s alright. Then again, Keith’s not certain that most things could talk him out of pulling a stunt like that, if he were truly dedicated and set on doing it. He holds himself back because part of being allowed backstage is a promise to behave himself and leave the performance uninterrupted.

Still, if he could get away with it, Keith wouldn’t let them finish the song. Not while Shiro’s smile looks so tight that his lips might snap. Not while he, himself, is starting to look more than a little bit pale. Maybe not enough to merit any intervention yet, but enough for Keith to furrow his brow and wonder what in the Hell is going on with his best guy or his beloved, or whatever he and Shiro are calling themselves for the next foreseeable however-long.

Galaxy Garrison’s second-to-last song for the evening, the one they pull out right after “I Love You, Man,” gives Keith a possible answer about why Shiro looks so green around the gills. The lead-up into it drops its own clues, too, but that’s probably just because Keith tries so hard to zero in on Shiro and tune out as much of the other goings-on as he can.

If Shiro were letting nerves get to him, then he wouldn’t let it show while he adjusts his guitar again. Yet, as the crowd yells in support of Pidge’s idea that Hunk and Lance should kiss for them like Pete Wentz macking on his own band-mates — as Lance fumbles back toward the drum-kit and Hunk rises to tug him in by his t-shirt — Shiro might as well be in his own little world. From back here and with the way that Shiro angles his body around, Keith doesn’t have the best view of his face. When he catches glimpses of Shiro’s profile, though, Shiro’s eyes seem like they’re staring at a far-off point that no one else can see. Or maybe like he knows that he’s lost something but he’s trying to relocated it anyway.

Ever hungry, the crowd calls for another kiss. More than willing to give them what they want, Lance flings himself at Hunk’s mouth so hard and fast that he _barely_ manages to keep his bass from colliding with Hunk’s drums. While he tries to pop his foot up and kicks the stand for one of Hunk’s cymbals, Shiro casts a glance toward the backstage area. He picks Keith out among the black, and when Keith gives him a smile and a wave, Shiro quirks his shoulders in a way that’s practically apologetic. Something gleams behind his eyes as if he might tear up. He doesn’t, but that sheen hasn’t disappeared by the time Shiro clears his throat into the mic and asks if Hunk and Lance are ready to play again.

Haunted — Keith wants that word to feel inappropriate. He wants it not to fit the situation, or the look on Shiro’s face. Except it’s unfortunately perfect for the way that Shiro’s fingers and lips tremble as Pidge and Lance start getting low, deep, mournful notes out of their respective instruments. Hunk comes in next, going at his drums with a precise, too-practiced softness, one that refuses to let Keith’s nerves settle because each light bang here or pointed thumping there feels like he’s lost in the woods, being followed by a beast, and waiting for it to get bored with the pursuit and pounce on him already.

That feeling ratchets up when Shiro finally joins in. His first chords are long and heavy, drawn out thanks to his pedal and he plays them so that the music ends up sounding layered, one note tumbling in on top of the other, all of them falling into place wherever they want like _Tetris_ blocks or dirt in a cemetery. It’s like getting buried in the music, and Keith’s heartbeat stutters with each new sound that Shiro slips into the mix. When he takes a deep breath and leans in toward his mic, conspiratorially close, Keith can’t look away. He isn’t certain that he can really breathe right now, either.

It doesn’t help when Shiro lets up on the pedal, switches gears and strums out a series lighter chords that all vie for Keith’s attention, moving faster than the funereal pace that Lance and Pidge and Hunk keep playing at. Each chord jumps in before its predecessors can even breathe or settle properly. All of them refuse to let any of the others get a word in edgewise, until Shiro’s channeling pure, elemental chaos through his fingers, his pick, his frets, his strings.

“ _Should’ve listened to my Mother_ ,” Shiro croons, so lightly that it’s jarring, so slowly that his voice impossibly clashes with the music that he’s creating and doesn’t even really blend in with the noise from Hunk and Lance and Pidge — but somehow, this all sounds exactly right. “ _Should’ve taken her advice to heart. Cause she warned me about meetings in the forest, before you ever had the chance to start_ —”

Keith’s breath catches in his throat and his fingers ball themselves up in his jeans. Even with the denim between them and his palm, his nails dig themselves around as though, somehow, they can get through that barrier and find a path that leads them to his skin. A way to claw him up like he’d let himself do in most other situations. As Shiro keeps singing — _“You said that you weren’t Mr. Right, charming but you’d never be a prince. But I wanted it, that danger in the night, and I’ve been lost in everything that’s happened since”_ — and Keith sits there, listening helplessly, he needs to do better, needs to do something. Fucking Hell, wouldn’t going at his own hands like a caged animal would be better than doing absolutely nothing.

God help him, Keith knows better. If he isn’t going to care about his own well-being (which he does? he thinks? for the most part, maybe?), then he should know how much it means to Shiro and Allura, every time he resists the impulse to do anything that relies on hurting himself, even if he doesn’t think it’s that big a deal. He knows that not seeing these little self-punishments is part of what everyone else perceives as the entire problem.

After the first round of the chorus, though, as Hunk and Lance and Pidge speed up to Shiro’s pace and Shiro starts thrashing at his guitar’s strings more than strumming then, part of Keith really wants to give in and let himself have that sense of comfort in pain. He wants to leave those familiar, angry red, crescent moon divots on his flesh. No matter what anybody else thinks about whether or not doing so is a form of self-harm, and no matter what they believe about how much it does or doesn’t help Keith handle anything, the sharp pang of doing that to himself feels like something that Keith could trust and rely on, at the moment. Something good for him that goes down hard, like making kids take their medicine.

If nothing else, that pain might keep Keith better grounded while Shiro is so obviously singing about Maurice.

Even if the lyrics didn’t spell that out in hundred-foot-tall neon letters — even if they didn’t weave a story of listening to a wolf and straying from where you want to be, of wondering if tonight will be the night your luck runs out and forgetting who you wanted to be because the only things that matter are keeping your favorite monster happy, of feeling poisoned and betrayed and like there is something broken in you now that you can never fix, some contagion or a curse that nobody can ever take away from him again — Keith can see the truth all over Shiro’s face. He can see it in the every piece of how Shiro handles himself and his instrument.

His knotted brow strains with all of the effort that he puts into keeping focused as he works over his strings so quickly that Keith can barely keep track of where his fingers go. During a break to emphasize the music and give Shiro’s voice a rest from all his anguished keening, he shuts his eyes and plays by memory, leaning into the pedal here or the mic-stand there, his features go calm. Keith can’t say for sure but he suspects the ostensible serenity only happens for Shiro because he’s throwing himself so deep into playing his song that he can’t get caught up in any of his pain. Focusing on the music might not tune anything else out, but it gives Shiro something to do that doesn’t leave him feeling completely useless.

Abruptly, in the middle of the break, Shiro slams his foot down on the pedal and works out a chord that seems to come more from inside of him than from his guitar. As Hunk and Lance go quiet, and Pidge taps out a barely-there line of notes, Shiro holds onto the chord until the note sounds like it’s screaming. When he finally lets up, he seems exhausted, completely wrecked, as if he just yelled himself hoarse. No matter what kind of mess Shiro seems to be, though, he is in the middle of a song and refuses to give up on performing it to the best of his ability. He starts back in on the lighter strumming from before, going more slowly but not by much.

As the song closes in on another chorus, he intones, “ _Out of your woods, I don’t remember what I wanted. You tried to break me, said you were my glue. Maybe I’ll never be done with you for real. Because when the full moon breaks, I turn out just like you…_ ”

The number ends not long after, with Lance’s heavy bass-line coming out stronger than ever and Shiro slowing down his strumming to match with Lance. As the crowd cheers, Shiro grabs up his second bottle of water and drains it. When he and the group are ready, they close their set out with “When You’re Away,” and Shiro throws a smile over his shoulder at Keith while Lance introduces the song for him. It’s a faint smile and he strains to keep his lips curled up just right, but nothing about it seems like a lie.

When their set is over, Shiro holds himself together. He’s more or less fine, or seems that way, through The Ultraviolents’ set, and the announcement of the winners, and loading the band’s gear back into Matt’s van and giving goodnight hugs to Ryou, Allura, and Dr. Iverson (which is only a shock to Keith because he never imagined that Dr. Iverson would willingly hug another person). Back at the apartment, Shiro doesn’t fake a smile while telling Keith that he can head to bed but Shiro wants to grab a shower first. Instead, he makes his voice stay calmer than Keith can let himself believe.

Of course, it would be nice if Shiro really had some peace of mind — but after putting so much of himself out there on display for that adoring crowd, after dredging up so much of his own pain for that song about Maurice? Keith knows better than to think that everything is fine.

He gets his proof not two minutes after Shiro joins him in the bed. The tears don’t even give Shiro a real breather before starting up. One moment, he’s lying next to Keith in silence, taking deep breaths that are too obviously measured, forcing himself to keep them slow and steady as if this might somehow fight off the inevitable.

The next moment, though, Shiro shivers as if he’s just been pulled out of an ice-bath. Trembling seems to come from down in Shiro’s bone marrow, but he stays on his back. As soon as Keith reaches for his shoulder, though, Shiro rolls over to face him. He hesitates for a moment, every breath so ragged, it sounds like it might be clawing its way out of him. Some hitch in his throat until it’s a miracle that he doesn’t choke on them. Lying in the light that filters in from the moon and street-lamps, Shiro looks at Keith as if he’s the only stable point in Shiro’s world, even if that’s only true right now, this second. His eyes glisten, water up, but don’t start crying. Keith can’t fathom how Shiro can have tears in his eyes like this, but _still_ keep himself so restrained that he can’t let them out.

Not until Keith brushes Shiro’s black bangs back off of his forehead. Gently, he trails his fingers along Shiro’s skin, and when Shiro blinks, the tears finally spill over. They come out stronger when Keith rests his palm on Shiro’s cheek. Deep breathing, this time, only makes Shiro cry harder. Helps the first sob come teetering out of him, helps kick the rest of them out too. They come in coughs and hacks, then little keening noises that Shiro fails to muffle behind his hands. During a lull that they give him, Shiro eases his fingers back through his hair, not tugging too hard from the look of things. But if Shiro wants Keith to keep an eye on that for himself, then Keith’s going to watch out for it with Shiro, too. No way around that and Shiro probably knows that.

By now, Keith certainly _hopes_ that Shiro knows it.

Scooting toward him, Keith expects Shiro to tug him closer, embrace Keith and bury his face in the crook of Keith’s neck. He’s ready for that, trying to angle himself so Shiro knows that he can get in here. Because Shiro letting people see him cry doesn’t happen all that often, not even Keith, and he prefers not to let people see him like that.

Instead, Shiro smiles up at him. It’s small and wobbly, but at least it’s earnest. The fondness in his eyes makes Keith’s cheeks flush hot. Whether or not Shiro can make that out in the low light, Keith ducks his chin like hiding in his hair is any kind of viable option.

“I love you. _So_ much,” Shiro whispers, reaching up to tuck Keith’s bangs behind his ear. “You know that, right?”

Keith nods. “But you… Are you…” He sighs. “Can I get you anything? Or what can I—”

“Just be with me. You’re all I want right now.”

Under the circumstances, the certainty in Shiro’s voice might be unnerving, if he didn’t temper it with so much affection. Edging up to his side gets Keith the reward of an arm slung around his waist. He snatches up the moment, uses it to get an arm around Shiro’s shoulders and nestle himself up against Shiro’s chest. If anything, this makes the crying worse, makes more tears fall onto Shiro’s cheeks and do so more freely. 

But it also spills relief across his features. It makes him smile so brightly, it’s a miracle that Shiro doesn’t literally light up his room.

“That’s not the only reason I needed this,” he admits. “And we can talk about it in the morning, if you want. But right now, I just…” Face straining to contain his smile, Shiro nudges his forehead into Keith’s. “I’m so happy I found you again.”

“I love you too,” Keith promises. “And if you want to talk, I want to listen.” 

*** * ***

Come Monday morning, Keith can’t think of a reason not to go to class. He just can’t think of why he wants to get up and head to campus like an adult, either.

Mildly gross, scratchy morning-breath kisses from Shiro rouse Keith more effectively than the alarm clock. Coffee and breakfast help a bit on top of that, Keith guesses. But by the time that he’s wandering toward campus with Shiro and Pidge, Keith hasn’t completely dragged himself around into the waking world. He’s looked at the texts Allura sent him about meeting her at the classroom rather than Java Hut so she can share the results of Keith’s DNA test — but even that idea doesn’t give Keith much help in the _“rousing himself”_ department. Halfway to campus, he hasn’t shaken himself loose from the feeling like he has stale cotton candy between his ears and like breathing is taking too much energy, even though it’s happening without Keith needing to think about it, the way that it’s supposed to be.

“That’s something that can happen with depression. Happens pretty regularly, at that,” Shiro tells Keith gently, while the three of them are waiting at a crosswalk. He wraps an arm around Keith’s shoulder, presses a gentle kiss to his temple, and clears his throat — which makes no sense until Keith glances to his other side and catches Pidge blushing like she just got caught sticking both hands in the goddamn cookie jar.

Trying to glare at them, she straightens up to her full height and screws her face up in a pout. “Hey, come on,” she huffs. “It’s not _my_ fault if you two talk about it out in the open, right in the middle of the sidewalk and everything, at full volume, like I’m not even here.”

“And if my opinion counts for anything?” Keith pipes up. “I don’t think that you’ve done anything wrong. _Or_ anything worth being protective over.” Lest Shiro get any ideas about blaming himself for things that _he_ hasn’t fucked up, Keith curls his own fingers around the hand that Shiro has splayed out on his bicep. As the light changes and lets them move along, he gives Shiro a squeeze that he hopes is reassuring. “Not that I don’t appreciate you looking out for me, but… Pidge has a point and she’s probably gonna hear about this anyway—”

“Because we’re _friends_ now?” Pidge interjects, her tone a mix of supportive, teasing, and about ten shades too bright for a Monday fucking morning. “Because you accept that I like you and like having you around and you want to trust me like _friends_ do, so you’re gonna do that?”

“Also because I accept that, with the way my life is shaking out lately? Considering certain developments that have come found me and made me deal with them?” Keith arches an eyebrow at her as Pidge darts around some older couple who’s heading in the opposite direction. “Keeping secrets has gotten increasingly less feasible. And anymore, it takes more work than I want to put in when the matter at hand isn’t really a secret. If it’s _any_ kind of secret, then it’s an open one where we only pretend we don’t know it’s there when y’all feel like humoring me.”

“It isn’t about us _humoring_ you — er, well. Okay, it’s not _exactly_ a matter of us humoring you?”

How Shiro can nuzzle at Keith’s hair while still walking and pull it off _without_ dragging them both down to the pavement? That’s beyond Keith in the same way that he doesn’t understand what the point of calculus is, aside from the parts he needed to learn to outdo all the expectations he called down on himself in Iverson’s class. But Shiro is warm, and being tucked up against his chest like this feels like the safest possible state for Keith to be in, at the moment. There are probably other options that wouldn’t suck. Keith supposes that Shiro’s embrace can’t keep him safe from pneumonia, and if someone started running through the streets with a knife, Shiro could only protect Keith by getting himself in trouble instead — which Keith would rather not have happen, not when it’s such a big deal that _Shiro_ doesn’t want it to happen, either.

None of that is happening at the moment, though. As they close in on campus, there are only three complaints that Keith can find — unrelated to how much he wishes he could go back to bed without hating himself for it later.

First of all, it’s cold this morning while the sky looks the most viscerally depressing shade of industrial gray that Keith can imagine, and despite the sticky sense of foreboding malingering about the air today, Keith can’t get a fix on whether or not it’s going to freaking rain. Secondly of all, if Keith can make any judgments based on the fact that his tongue kept trying to tell him something tasted off about his scrambled eggs, then it’s shaping up to be yet another day in which his appetite is largely hypothetical, which is exactly what Keith needed. More difficulty making himself suck it up and do basic-level things that are just necessary for maintaining his continued existence as a human person on planet Earth.

Thirdly of all, Keith’s pretty sure that it would be rude to ask Shiro to carry him _and_ his backpack up to Kolivan’s classroom. No matter how much a piggyback ride sounds like a good idea at the moment, Keith especially can’t pull out a stunt like asking for one right on the heels of insisting that Shiro didn’t need to lug his bag around for him because Keith’s perfectly capable of doing it himself.

Also, not a complaint exactly? But Keith doesn’t have anything nice to say about how it probably isn’t socially acceptable to shove his tongue in Shiro’s mouth while they wait to cross another street. At the very least, it wouldn’t be fair on Pidge, since she’s part of this conversation, too. Things would get awfully one-sided for her if Keith took away Shiro’s ability to engage in the discussion by dragging him into making out, and given how people it would likely call down a lot of judgment from other pedestrians that Pidge doesn’t deserve having unfairly thrust onto her shoulders.

Either way, Keith doesn’t care if general PDA is rude or not. He isn’t arguing in the slightest when Shiro cuddles him closer and tells him, “The idea isn’t that we humor you — or any of the rest of us — by not insisting on pointing out anybody’s diagnosis, or relying on that for an easy explanation, or anything else? The idea is more that you might need to work your way to any given realization on your own time, and taking that away from you probably won’t help? Or, like…”

He sighs, but as they come to a stop, kitty-corner from the quad, Pidge jumps in to rescue him: “Basically, it’s a matter of trying to respect each other as well as possible, y’know? Like, with Shiro, it’s usually an issue where he’s acting like things that are blatantly causing problems for him really aren’t as bad as they might seem—”

“Goddamn, I know that behavior all too well,” Keith mutters.

“You do it only slightly less often than I do, baby.”

“I never said that I didn’t, only that I know it all too well.” Dropping his head onto Shiro’s shoulder, Keith gives himself a moment to reconsider tacking on something else. Rubbing his cheek against Shiro’s hoodie, he adds, “You could even say that I know that behavior in the Biblical sense. Considering how many times we’ve ever fucked while one or both of us was in the middle of pretending that we had everything completely handled, and everything was fine, and absolutely nothing was on fire.”

Shiro huffs affectionately and tugs Keith’s earlobe. “I love you, too. Now, let Pidge talk.”

“Well, see when it comes to me,” she goes on as if they didn’t just flirt with each other all over interrupting her. Bouncing along the quad the way she does ought to be illegal so early, but part of Keith can’t help smiling, even though Pidge’s energy refuses to be contagious. “See, with me, the issue is usually something more about how I’m digging myself a rabbit hole and won’t come out? But you can’t really pull me down from things when I get like that, people have to sort of ask the right questions and prod me in the right ways and help me get to the point on my own.”

Keith chuckles, and as they come into Montgomery Hall, he tries to cover it up with a pensive hum. It gets Pidge to arch an eyebrow up at him like she can drag the answers out of him by looking at him with such intensity. If Keith were awake enough for this — if he could summon up enough energy and enough feeling to let her cow him into submission — then Pidge would actually have a decent strategy on her hands.

But as it stands, Keith muffles a yawn behind his palm and waits until they’re in the elevator before explaining, “See, if I wanted to make you stop doing anything? I’d just pick you up and bodily move you away from whatever—”

“Oh, Jesus _fucking_ —” Rolling her eyes, Pidge groans. It echoes off the cab’s walls. “Like I’ve never heard a _short_ joke before, _Lance_.”

“Also,” Shiro adds while Pidge playfully elbows Keith in the ribs. “Picking her up and moving her doesn’t really work. You set her down somewhere, and then she just waits for you to turn your back or get distracted, then she scampers back to doing whatever she was up to before.”

Responding to this or not isn’t _exactly_ a matter of pride or principle. Sure, Keith _wants_ to give Pidge and Shiro some amazingly witty retort about how he could find a way to make his admittedly half-assed, mostly joking plan stick and successfully keep Pidge from losing herself in a downward spiral of obsessing over Lord only knows what. It’d be nice to have his wits about him enough to manage that. But when the elevator gets to Keith’s floor, he rather expects Shiro to come with him while Pidge goes off to wherever her own class is and thereby ends the conversation (perhaps temporarily, perhaps not).

Instead, she decides to come along, since they’re on campus reasonably early — and as the three of them fumble into the classroom, Allura’s beaten them there and arranged the tables into Kolivan’s almost-circle. Sitting on the edge of one, she’s wearing a powder blue turtleneck and a darker blue skirt that hits a bit above her knees, pleated with white tulle and white polka dots. One of her hands bounces an envelope against her legs, while the other one’s fingers drum along a box from the Olkari bakery a few blocks from her family’s townhouse. Without a word, she blinks at Keith, then smiles at Pidge, arches an eyebrow at Shiro, and quirks both of them up when she turns her bright, glimmering blue eyes back to Keith.

“It seems I had a good hunch in getting extra treats,” Allura says, failing to repress a giggle.

Keith shrugs. “They kinda followed me,” he deadpans. “But they’re cute, so… Can we keep them around?”

Humming, Allura pretends to consider this question for a moment. Still bobbing against her thigh and skirt, the envelope counts off each second. “I suppose that’s mostly up to you, _unelinde_ — and, of course, whether or not we’d be keeping them from anything.”

Pidge grins and informs Allura that she’s got nowhere to be until their classes start — and that Keith couldn’t actually get rid of her if he tried. Unless she started making him feel genuinely uncomfortable, but he might need to tell her that because, like she said on the walk over, it’s not always easy for her to notice these things. Furthermore, since her class is only upstairs and down the hall a bit, she can theoretically hang around for quite a while. Easing Keith’s backpack off his shoulders, Shiro supposes that he doesn’t mind being a little bit late to work.

“We almost never have early customers and my boss is always a little late,” he explains, following where Keith points, then sitting on the edge of the table by Keith’s Spot. “Plus, he’s been trying to encourage me to let myself take more personal time as necessary practically since he hired me—”

“Doesn’t the phrase, ‘personal time’ generally mean that the time’s supposed to be for _you_?” Keith points out. He’s trying to keep his tone light, trying not to sound judgmental or harsh or anything that might cause Shiro undue pain. But really, this (potential) oversight on Shiro’s part seems particularly egregious, and Keith can’t hold back a huff when Shiro quirks a quizzical eyebrow as if he doesn’t understand the question in the slightest.

“I just mean, like?” Keith groans and kind of hates himself for doing so — but at least he manages to find the words he wants and say, “I dunno, to me? The whole idea of _personal_ time is that you’re supposed to be taking care of _yourself_. Looking after _your own_ well-being.”

“That’s one way that I’ve used it.” To his credit, Shiro pauses to think before he tacks on, “One thing that it can also mean? Is helping look after the well-being of people who matter to me. And being there for the people who need me. Basically, handling issues that are personally important to me, even if they may not be _my_ issues, directly.”

He shoots Keith a warm smile, focusing entirely on him. No matter that Pidge and Allura are here too, Shiro means this expression for Keith exclusively. Eyes gleaming as if Keith is the single most important and most precious part of Shiro’s universe, he tells Keith, “I _want_ to use my personal time to be around for you when you need me, okay? Being here for you isn’t a waste of time to me, Keith. Looking out for you is not mutually exclusive with taking care of myself.”

_This_ statement, Keith realizes, is one that he definitely should have some kind of response for.

He shouldn’t simply stand here, slouching as though he still has his backpack weighing down his shoulders and certain down to his bones that he can’t adjust his posture. He shouldn’t blink at Shiro and tilt his head like a perplexed owl, furrowing his brow as he drags his eyes up and down Shiro’s body, silently cursing the fact that he can’t clearly see how his Johnny Cash t-shirt clings to Shiro’s abs because his hoodie’s in the way. At the moment, Keith _really_ shouldn’t get caught up in how the overhead fluorescent lights bring out both the warmest tones of Shiro’s tawny skin as well as the faint rings beneath his eyes, or the way that Shiro’s white fringe might have more bounce and lift to it than usual, framing the side of his face as if he intended for it to fall exactly like this, not quite hitting his cheekbone.

The problem for Keith’s ability to say anything, though, is that Shiro’s right here, right now, and he is looking at Keith as if nothing else exists. He’s just spelled everything out again, how much Keith means to him and how much it means to him for Keith to be back in his life. This is something so important to him, and it means so much for Shiro to be saying it. Keith _should_ have something more to say for himself. He _should_ have something to say for himself, anything that he can tell Shiro while he’s sitting there, trying to smile while getting a gleam of concern in his soft, grey eyes.

Instead, Keith sidles in between Shiro and Allura and nestles himself up against Shiro’s side. He bats the back of his hand at Shiro’s stomach until he wraps his arm around Keith’s shoulders again. Wriggling a bit more than he needs to do, Keith slips his arms around Shiro’s waist. He smirks when tugging Shiro closer gets him to gasp and make a soft noise that sounds a lot like, _“eep!”_

Whining more than he likes, Keith drops his chin onto Shiro’s shoulder. After a few deep whiffs of Shiro’s shampoo and pomegranate body wash, Keith tells him, “You’re a huge nerd and I love you.”

“Love you too, baby—”

“So, what’s in the envelope, Princess,” Pidge pipes up. When Keith looks back in her direction, she’s standing as close to full attention as her backpack will allow, arms folded over her chest in one of the universal signs that somebody means business. Silently, she crinkles her face up in a tight pout that Keith can’t make heads or tails of — aside from how it’s like the physical equivalent of grumbling and it makes her look younger than her height and her baby-face already do.

Everything comes together when Pidge arches an eyebrow at him and starts tapping her foot.

“Don’t get so impatient, okay,” he tells her, shifting so that his cheek rests against Shiro’s shoulder instead. Keeping his head up and his chin in place is starting to feel like it requires too much energy. “Allura’s got some pretty important test results for me, and we’re _getting to it_ , but it’s sort of a big deal—”

“What, like those Ancestry.com, ‘Learn the story of you, or learn one version of it that’s based on what your DNA says about where your ancestors maybe came from’ commercials that they play on the Game Show Network?” When Keith furrows his brow and frowns at her, all Pidge does is shrug as if she has no idea what he’s getting hung up on, here. “I watch it with my Grandma, sometimes. She lets me yell the answers at _Wheel of Fortune_ , _The Chase_ , and _Chain Reaction_ without telling me to knock it off so she can hear.”

Well, that explanation makes about as much sense as Keith’s going to get out of the mental image of Pidge watching game shows in the first place. But it’s completely not the point, so he shakes his head and ruffles his own bangs. He’d rather not pick his head up off of Shiro's shoulder — putting any space between himself and Shiro currently sounds like a cruel and unusual punishment that Keith doesn’t feel like dealing with — but doing so makes it mildly easier to talk to Pidge, he guesses. As if sensing Keith’s reluctance, Shiro squeezes his shoulders and rubs fondly at his bicep.

Which is enough to help Keith say, “I haven’t seen the commercials in question? But that’s pretty much the idea, yeah.”

“Well, you still shouldn’t keep yourself waiting,” Pidge points out. “If nothing else, Kolivan’s gonna show up eventually and he’ll have a mind to teach a class. Opening up your results while he’s doing that won’t be the best idea.”

Keith can’t refute that point. Can’t even come up with the barest minimum of a counterargument.

Yet, as he takes the envelope from Allura, he also can’t make his hands behave. They _feel_ like they’re trembling — they _feel_ like they’re stuck out in the middle of a blizzard and trying desperately to keep him warm, or like he’s stuffed to the gills with enough caffeine to give an elephant a heart attack — but as Keith frowns at his palms and fingers, he can’t see any motion. No one says anything about his hands, either. Allura puts a hand on his knee and tells Keith that everything will be alright. Shiro kisses his temple and promises that he loves Keith, that they’re all here for him. Pidge says that he needs to get this over with already before he drives himself up a wall and can’t get down.

With his eyes clenched shut, Keith shreds off the top of the envelope. Holding fast to a deep breath — holding it in as if his life depends on it, because right now, he can’t be certain that it doesn’t — he jerks out the folded-up results. The empty envelope flutters to the floor, and dimly, Keith feels like he should pick it up. Like he should take a moment right now and handle his classroom littering because it’s impolite, and it makes a mess, and if he doesn’t do it now, then it might end up like all the messes or heaps of unwashed laundry that he’s ever allowed to build up at his apartment, after saying that he’d get to them tomorrow.

Except waiting to unfurl his results might mean that he never gets around to that, either. Keith swallows thickly as he unfolds the paper. Can’t make himself open his eyes. Three separate sighs come at him. Pidge’s sounds like she’s getting to her absolute wits’ end with Keith and how he’s dragging things out about this. Allura’s sounds like she’s trying her best not to be too eager about the results, like she knows that this is about Keith and not her own curiosity, but she can’t help how much she wants to know more about his background and where his parents came from. Keith can’t find anything to take issue with about either of their sighs, not really. Some part of him wants to be annoyed, but there’s no reason for that.

All the same, Shiro’s sigh is the one that bothers Keith the least. It’s soft, so light that Keith might’ve missed if Shiro weren’t leaning into his ear, and there’s nothing tired or impatient about it. Keith might be imagining things that he wants to hear, but the way that Shiro sighs sounds like he just wants Keith to see his answers already and Shiro desperately hopes that they give his baby some peace of mind, even if it isn’t much.

Huffing, Keith forces his eyes open. He skims over the letter’s preamble, which ends up being the entire first page in the packet before him. In the center of the second page, he finds a pie chart, all brightly colored and impossible to miss. The biggest, bright blue slice draws Keith’s eye first, unsurprisingly labeled _Korean_. About the only shock Keith finds is the fact that the number is somewhat less than he expected, given that both of his parents were Korean: 43%.

Going clockwise, a smaller, green slice says that he’s about 16.5% Japanese — which might finally explain why every other _Kogane_ he’s found before has been Japanese. The smallest slice (purple) says that 4.5% of his DNA comes from the British Isles (unexpected, but from a historian’s perspective, unsurprising). Finally, he lands on a bright red slice, the second-biggest one, and squints at the label: _Galra (36%)_.

For several moments, Keith can’t remember where his brain’s run away to, can’t guess why it’s left him hanging when he needs it. The harsh static isn’t there, either, or the feeling like he has a bunch of children hidden in his skull and stomping on bubble-wrap when he tries to summon up a thought. There’s only a void. A cold emptiness that seeps down his face and neck, ebbs into his chest — pushing against one of the papers’ creases, Keith inhales sharply, and tenses until he’s perfectly certain that his lungs haven’t disappeared on him as well, until he’s sure that they are still with him and still working like they’re supposed to. More or less. Which is better than a whole lot of nothing.

Fighting himself about taking deeper breaths, Keith blinks over Pidge’s shoulder at the doorway and the straggling passersby out in the corridor. He tilts the page toward Shiro, who takes a hot second before murmuring, _“Oh.”_ While Shiro noses at Keith’s hair, Keith passes the pages over to Allura, and her response is very much the same: silence, and then an, _“Oh.”_

“Oh, _what_?” says Pidge, brow furrowed in palpable annoyance at how there’s something going on that nobody’s explaining for her. “What’s the news of the day? What are we all acting like we kinda get but also maybe we don’t?”

“The results?” Keith doesn’t mean to skirt so close to snapping at her. Closing his eyes, he ducks his chin. Shakes his head and mumbles, “Sorry, that wasn’t fair on you, it’s just like… It’s one of those things where it feels like it’s sudden and totally coming out of nowhere, and you need to process it, but really, you can’t even be surprised?”

For all she still doesn’t know what’s going on, Pidge supposes that she understands what Keith is talking about. She takes the papers when Keith tells Allura that it’s okay for Pidge to see the pie chart for herself, but even that doesn’t clear things up for her. Sure, she wrinkles her nose as if she’s putting in a great deal of thought, here — but there is so much context that Pidge doesn’t have. No one could expect for her to really understand what she’s looking at.

“Which part are we fixating on, though?” Nose wrinkled up, she shrugs in the near-universal way of signaling exactly how much she doesn’t get what’s going on or why it’s so important. “Like, the British Empire went all over everywhere, I’m pretty sure finding them on your DNA test isn’t really—”

Another jerk of his head doesn’t help Keith feel like his internal wires are meeting their points of connection. But it _does_ get Pidge to go quiet, nodding that she understands how Keith needs a moment or ten to think. It also makes Shiro nuzzle at Keith’s temple again, ever so softly, as if he’s trying not to disturb Keith any and only wants to reemphasize the point that he’s here for Keith, as long as Keith wants him to be. Part of Keith wants to lean up and wreck his mouth to within an inch of both their lives, send Shiro off to work with his lips aching and halfway-bruised. Most of Keith, though, wants to slump harder into Shiro’s side. Burrow into his warm chest and stay here in his embrace for the rest of the day.

Because it’s safe in Shiro’s arms and maybe, if Keith stays here, then he won’t need to deal with this. Or with anything else, for that matter.

None of this ought to throw Keith off so badly. People told him that this would happen. Even so, that one label out of four — _Galra (36%)_ — feels like it’s lodged itself in Keith’s throat and started scratching there. But it won’t do him the courtesy of clawing him up hard enough to merit screaming or crying over it. It won’t set him on fire or completely unravel his nerves, either. It doesn’t bother doing much of anything. Certainly nothing that Keith can justify getting upset about. The label merely _exists_. It can’t be on the page, but it is. It can’t be Keith’s life, and yet, it is. It doesn’t _do_ anything; it simply _is_.

As Allura pats Keith’s leg and asks if he’d mind her leaning against his side as well (he doesn’t) — as Shiro kisses the top of Keith’s head and tells him that it’s okay if he doesn’t know how he feels right off the bat and nobody would expect him to — as Pidge takes a muffin from Allura’s box and sits on her other side, offhandedly saying something that sounds kind but admittedly, Keith’s only partly keeping track of it… Through everything that continues happening around Keith, nothing changes about that one word and one approximate number (with a two-percent margin of error). Nothing dislodges either of them from his mind, or makes the one-two beating of his heart stop sounding like it now goes: _Gal. Ra. Gal. Ra. Gal. Ra_.

A sharp, crisp knock on the door-frame jerks Keith out of his head and back down to the same realm as everybody else. Blinking at Kolivan, he can’t find anything to say for himself. Keith should probably have something to say for himself, right? It’s not every day that your advisor finds you in the middle of being inexplicably cuddled by your best friend and your beloved, much less when you can be notoriously finicky about getting touched.

“Dare I ask what the occasion is,” Kolivan says, not unsympathetically but without room for Keith to think that he’s getting off any kind of hook. He gives a soft sigh as Keith peers up at him and adds, “Whatever is happening, you do not need to keep it to yourself.”

Keith tries to nod, but can’t make himself get all the way there. He waves a hand at Pidge until she hands over the packet with his results, then proffers them at Kolivan. Waiting for him to take them makes Keith feel like his blood is freezing over, and watching Kolivan flip back to the first page, Keith feels like he has blocks of ice inside his ribcage. Fuck him, Keith doesn’t like this. Something — he needs to do _something_ — whatever that something is, Keith has no idea, no clue what would help him, if anything, but there has to—

“I’m part-Galra,” he blurts out, before Kolivan can turn to the second page and take in the findings. “You were right. You tried to tell me about my knife and my middle name, you tried to and I didn’t listen to you, I…” Keith shakes his head and lets his bangs droop over his eyes. “I’m part-Galra.”

Saying those words doesn’t make them feel any less unreal. Doesn’t help Keith get his head around anything.

Even with Allura and Shiro trying to tether him to reality, the only thing that keeps Keith from getting completely lost in his own head is Kolivan handing back the folded-up pages.

His voice is gentle and his expression calm as he says, “My office, after class?” 

*** * ***

Keith doesn’t mean to annoy his advisor any. He doesn’t mean to get on Kolivan’s nerves when he doesn’t _need_ to indulge Keith by sitting down with him about anything beyond his studies. Even so, he fidgets all through waiting for Kolivan to finish talking with two of the other students about his grading rubric for the final paper. On the way up to his office, the elevator cab’s far too crowded for Keith to comfortably bounce on the balls of his feet, so he thwaps his thumb against his thigh. It doesn’t steady him or put his mind at ease, but Keith keeps doing it until Kolivan arches an eyebrow as if asking what Keith thinks he’s doing. No judgment, but in their own way, questions that Keith can’t answer are just as bad.

Before shutting his door, Kolivan pauses to look up and down the hallway — an understandable precaution, given the potential for being overheard. As he waits, though, Keith can’t tame his mind enough to get it around any of the questions racketing around in there. Finishing Antok’s book yesterday, he had so many notions for where they could take this conversation. Mulling over what he and Lotor talked about at the bar, Keith had so many ideas about where the Blade of Marmora fits into the larger history of Galran imperialism and colonialism, how the rise of Galran nationalism might or might not have affected the Marmora’s development and activities, and so many more things. He jotted down notes about all of this, so he wouldn’t forget anything or get so inarticulate that Kolivan questioned whether or not Keith did the reading.

But now, as he flops onto Kolivan’s couch, all that Keith has going on between his ears is static. Too much of everything, and it crackles as so many questions vie for Keith’s attention. None of them make any sense. None of them want to translate themselves into words that Keith can expect another person to understand. He curls his legs up to his chest, kicks off his sneakers when Kolivan clears his throat, and closes his eyes while he leans his head back. But nothing helps Keith clear his mind enough to speak.

God, he’s probably trying his advisor’s patience like this. Except Kolivan doesn’t seem particularly tense when he asks about Keith’s weekend ( _“Good, I guess? Shiro’s band won best in show and we slept together the night before. Literally. But also sexually”_ ) and how he found the reading (a shrug and an admission that Keith tried not to be too biased, but despite how he enjoyed reading _Knowledge or Death_ , he’d rather read Kolivan’s take on the Blades — _“Or Antok’s second book about them, apparently. I heard it’s less theoretical. That sounds better for me”_ ). When Keith says that he still isn’t looking forward to his second meeting with the counselor, Kolivan doesn’t even roll his eyes. He offers to hear Keith out, but Keith can’t think of anything else to say. Keith’s perspective on the matter has never been convoluted and having one decent session with that Blumfump guy changes nothing.

Pushing his glasses back up his nose, Kolivan sighs. There’s barely any energy behind it and there’s certainly no judgment; Kolivan sounds exhausted but it doesn’t seem like he’s tired for his own sake. He gives Keith a long look that’s so gentle, most people on campus probably wouldn’t believe that Kolivan is capable of twisting up his face like this. They’re probably lucky that Antok isn’t here, because knowing him, he’d point to this as evidence of how Kolivan treats Keith more like a son than an academic advisee. That might make Kolivan bristle and clam up, and Keith isn’t sure how he might react, himself.

Hell, he can’t even tell what he’s feeling about this expression _now_ , without anybody here to stick their noses into business that isn’t theirs. He blinks at Kolivan and shrugs without a clue about what he’s responding to, and this earns Keith another sympathetic sigh.

“You were much less talkative in class as well,” Kolivan says. “May I safely assume that seeing the results of your DNA test has thrown you off?”

“I guess, yeah? Little bit…” Cringing at how he can’t even properly manage sounding petulant and sarcastic right now, Keith thumps his forehead on his knees. Three hits don’t help him, but they don’t hurt, either. “This is so fucking stupid, isn’t it?”

Kolivan hums. Thinks for a moment before conceding that he might not have the best insight on this situation. “I have always known that I am Galra. I had Galra parents and family. I grew up in a Galran home, steeped in Galran tradition. I knew that, someday, my Father would either disavow me or pass on his luxite blade.” Pausing pointedly, Kolivan arches an eyebrow at Keith’s backpack. “Speaking of luxite blades—”

“I left mine at Shiro’s apartment, okay?” God, Keith wants to whine about Kolivan’s tacit accusation. He wants to have enough presence of mind for that. He wants to sound like he’s fighting Kolivan, instead of sounding so _lost_ and so _pathetic_. But if he can’t get that together, then Keith owes Kolivan more than pointless huffing. So, he adds, “You’re already taking enough risks by talking to me about the Blades on campus, right?”

“True, but not the reason why I asked you not to bring your knife to campus—”

“But Dean Zarkon has a stick up his ass about the Blades, right? Because they didn’t lie down and take the House of Mireth’s shit—”

“Having _any_ weapons on campus is a serious violation of our university’s rules about student conduct and _safety_ , Keith. Dean Zarkon would not appreciate you having a Marmoran luxite blade, but you would truly find yourself disciplined for breaking such a basic-level rule about student conduct.”

As though it isn’t enough for Kolivan to draw Keith’s attention to this, he shoots Keith a _Look_ over the tops of his glasses. Without outright saying so, the way he quirks his eyebrows reminds Keith that he _knows_ what Kolivan meant. He _knows_ that Kolivan’s concern hardly laid with Keith protecting his advisor’s well-being. The pointed gleam in Kolivan’s eyes makes it clear that he doesn’t appreciate his advisee trying to get out of addressing what Kolivan sees as the real issue by shifting the focus off of himself and onto Kolivan. Any egregious missteps on Keith’s part might very well push things to their breaking point — with Kolivan right now, but also with Allura, with Hunk and Lance and Pidge and Shay (all of whom probably _like_ Keith well enough, but still prefer Shiro and Allura), and possibly with Shiro—

Nibbling on his lip and curling one hand into a fist, Keith tries to banish that thought. Smothers it with a pillow because it isn’t helping anybody. In the long-term, the only thing that dwelling on thoughts like that will get Keith is a headache and a sneaking self-doubt spiral that everyone gets mad at him for. At the moment, the only thing it will accomplish is trying Kolivan’s patience more than Keith already does on a daily basis because he knows that Keith knows better about what they’re supposed to be discussing and why. Because he can only stomach so many of Keith’s antics at any given time, especially not when Keith’s perpetually toeing a fine line between insisting on his personal boundaries and displaying straight-up ingratitude.

That (still hypothetical) exasperation would be fair enough, if Kolivan were to go there. Even clamping his arms down around his chest and feeling like he’s channeling every lazy, whining, spoiled brat he’s ever shared a class with, Keith can still admit that, of the two of them, _Kolivan_ isn’t the one who’s apparently spent the past several months on a downward spiral that refuses to leave Keith alone.

For all Keith means to say something for himself, Kolivan clears his throat and interjects into Keith’s reverie before it can get too much further: “Receiving such an abrupt confirmation of your Galran heritage might understandably upset you, Keith—”

“Are you gonna give me my due, ‘I told you so’ already?” Jaw clenched shut, Keith tightens his grip on his elbow. “Because, I mean? You told me so. I didn’t listen, but you were right. Maybe I’m more Korean than Galra, but I’m more Galra than _literally_ anything else _except_ Korean—”

“I had not planned to give you such an obnoxious reminder of our previous discussions, no.” Kolivan shakes his braid and leans toward Keith. He keeps his hands folded in his lap, right where Keith can see them. “If you would prefer to hear a lecture about listening to reason when presented with evidence that you may not want to acknowledge? I could go ask Antok to provide you with one. But personally, I would rather not waste our time, pretending that your reluctance to accept your Galran heritage is the only issue of any significance.”

“But how could I not _know_ before this happened, Kolivan?” Keith snaps before he can think better of it. Even with his best instincts telling him to shut up, Keith goes on, “Why did I have to learn any of this by dumb luck? I’ve had that knife for my entire life. How could _nobody_ tell me _anything_ about what it means? Even before my parents fucked off — or with my Mom’s Aunt Hana — or literally anyone, why didn’t _literally anyone_ know and care enough to tell me anything, except for you?”

Spitting those questions out makes something flare up in Keith’s chest again. Makes him almost feel like he’s back to whatever he usually passes off as something in the vicinity of normal — which he guesses only means that he’s feeling _something_ apart from numb and tired and sad and scared. Keith needs to force himself not to curl up any tighter, not to degrade himself or disrespect Kolivan by making a defensive ball as if that will do anything to hide him from Kolivan’s view. As if Keith will get any help whatsoever from burying feelings that Kolivan can probably see spelled out all over Keith’s features, clear as day.

So many of Keith’s muscles scream at him to protect himself before he can call down Kolivan’s full wrath. Part of the belly-to-the-ground, worming ingrate part of his mind hisses that Keith should steel himself and entomb himself with his emotions before things go too far, the way that he always makes them do. No matter what Keith does, no matter what he ever tries to do differently, he pushes too hard and he should get ready for a fight because he deserves that, with how he’s acting — but Kolivan purses his lips and sighs. Instead of simmering with anger or snapping back at Keith, he scoots his chair closer to Keith, still giving him that _Look_ like he isn’t sure what he can do to help, but he’d try nearly anything.

It takes Keith a moment to relent, but he uncurls one of his legs. Then, the other. With a sigh so heavy that it scrapes Keith’s bones and throat on its way up and out of him, Keith slouches into the sofa’s cushions. Silently, he curses them for not being Shiro’s arms and chest, but they’re nicer to lean against than a brick wall or empty air. Allura would huff at him about his so-called _man-spreading_ , if she were here, but Kolivan doesn’t say anything one way or the other about how Keith slumps back against the couch and splays his legs, letting them fall open however they want.

All Kolivan offers Keith is, “You have a specific question in mind. Respect yourself enough to ask it.”

“You probably can’t answer it any more than you could answer the other ones,” Keith mutters. “Those ones are at least sorta open-ended, you could make some guesses. But with the _real_ question, it’s like you and Antok tell us in class, sometimes. We can look at records and we can contextualize things all we want, but we can’t speak to the specific motivations of historical figures. Even if they left a paper trail that’s full of rants about why they think they did things, that’s only one piece of the picture, right? And we’ve never met any of those people.”

Letting his eyes slip shut again, Keith pushes his bangs off his forehead and twists his fingers up in his hair. “You can’t say anything about why my Mom did anything or why she didn’t. You’ve never met her. I don’t remember enough about her to help you. And her paper trail — at least anything that I’ve ever found of her — is so limited that it’s basically useless.”

“Even if I cannot help you, I want to hear the question that’s plaguing you so intensely.” Kolivan huffs and, for a moment, it feels like he could _literally_ pry into Keith’s soul with just his eyes. “You help no one, and more than likely harm yourself, by keeping it locked up inside of you like this, Keith. Tell me what’s on your mind. What is currently bothering you about your Mother?”

“I just…” Keith’s leg twitches, nearly puts itself back up as a wall between Keith and Kolivan. God, this is stupid. So, so impossibly fucking stupid — Keith can’t keep acting like such a brat, he _knows_ better than to act like this. But his tongue feels like it’s swollen up with Novocaine and cemented to the roof of his mouth with peanut butter. He has no earthly idea how he manages to blurt out, “My Mom gave me her knife when she left me. She and my Dad gave me the name of a noble house that was involved in the Blade of Marmora—”

“Have you done extra reading on the subject?” Kolivan says this with barely any inflection, voice pointedly neutral despite the curiosity glimmering behind his facial expression. “I do not think that Antok went into detail about the House of Sarkance’s involvement with the Blades in _Knowledge or Death_ —”

“I talked about it with Lotor, okay?” Keith rolls his eyes, just thinking about it, but he owes Kolivan the explanation, “His band played a set right after Shiro’s. He saw me reading Antok’s book at the bar. He managed not to be a _complete_ douchebag for long enough that I have to keep reminding myself that the conversation actually happened—”

“And at some point in your discussion, he mentioned the House of Sarkance—”

“I brought them up. Sort of. He asked the first question that took us there, but I gave him the answer that let him know that they were on the table, and I just…” It feels like a miracle when Keith groans. His chest aches from how hard that sound comes to him, but at least he can still find energy enough to react like that. “He said that _your_ family joined the Blades early. He said that Antok’s family helped found them in the first place — which explained a lot about how he talked about their House—”

“The House of Vpraševall was not alone in founding the Blade of Marmora.” Kolivan shrugs as though this ought to clear up anything else Keith might ask, but quirks his lips like he knows damn well that it won’t. “While writing _Knowledge or Death_ , Antok feared that he might come across as a braggart who happened to have a PhD — or, worse, that he might too easily risk overstating his family’s involvement and distorting the historical record by doing so.”

“Fair enough. But then Lotor was all…” Keith waves a hand at the air before his face, but when that doesn’t help him relocate any sort of bearings, he tugs at his hair instead. “I tell him my middle name, and he gets _vulnerable_ , insists on giving me his number like the fact that I might be part-Galra magically makes us friends and erases how he’s been trying to get in my beloved’s pants _after_ Shiro dumped him, like, six months ago—”

“ _Focus_ , Keith. Take a deep breath. Take as many deep breaths as you need. Then, return to the subject at hand.”

Keith takes three deep breaths and doesn’t feel like talking about this will be any easier. But he makes himself say, “He hears that I’m apparently from the House of Sarkance, and gets it in his head that… I don’t even know what Lotor thinks that he’s thinking? But he told me the House of Sarkance was one of the earliest houses to join the Blades, and that this is some kind of big deal—”

Keith skids to a verbal halt when Kolivan holds up a hand. Following his own advice, Kolivan helps himself to several deep, slow breaths. He narrows his eyes nearly to slits as he glances at the door, then looks at all four corners of his office.

For a moment, this makes no sense. Even by Kolivan’s standards, it’s weird and paranoid to act like there might be bugs or hidden cameras in his office, but then—

 _Shit, fuck, goddammit, right_ — the explanation hits Keith like a bullet to the head. Dean Zarkon could get Kolivan into shit if he gets a whiff of Kolivan possibly discussing the Blade of Marmora outside the classroom, in a non-academic context and ways that definitely have not been pre-approved.

Silently, Keith wrinkles his nose and swallows thickly. Out in the corridor, there’s the sound of someone bustling about, but Keith can’t tell who it is or if they can hear anything in Kolivan’s office. If Raht and Prorok are out there, and if they’re dropping any eaves that they have no right to drop, then Keith and Kolivan could get ratted out before they’re done talking. God only knows what could happen if they got in that kind of trouble, and personally, Keith has no desire to find that out firsthand.

With a barely audible huff, Kolivan drops his hand and fixes his gaze on Keith. Nudging his glasses up again, he goes pensively quiet. Makes sense enough, Keith guesses. If they’re walking on conversational broken glass — and Dean Zarkon’s involvement, tangential though it currently is, makes this entire discussion a mix of minefield and the streets around Keith’s apartment — then of course Kolivan’s going to be careful about what he says. He has to work within certain lines and maneuver within certain rules, or else he could lose everything.

“The House of Sarkance’s involvement in the Blade of Marmora is, as you say? Very much a big deal,” Kolivan finally tells him, voice certain but barely above a whisper. “However, we will need to take the utmost care with anything else that we discuss on campus — about both the House of Sarkance and the Blade of Marmora. Divorcing the Blades from their history cannot truly be accomplished, by us or anyone. Nevertheless, we must focus on the _personal_ elements that tie both of us to this issue.”

“You mean, like… The fact that you and Antok have ancestors who were involved in the Blade of Marmora, regardless of what you think about the politics?”

Keith nearly lets himself smile when Kolivan gives him a nod. But he can’t give himself that, not when Kolivan’s pursing his lips expectantly, like there’s something that Keith’s leaving out. Like he full-on handed Keith a grading rubric for this conversation, directly spelled out everything that he wants from Keith, and knows that Keith can deliver better than he’s currently doing. At least Kolivan doesn’t seem offended when Keith rolls his eyes and knocks his head back into the cushions.

“…And like how I feel about my Mom not telling me anything about being Galra before she left me. Right?” This nod from Kolivan makes Keith groan. “I don’t _know_ how I feel about it, okay? I guess I feel a lot of things. But too many to pick out any one thing I feel in particular or not—”

“Then _don’t_ ,” Kolivan says with the tact of a brick. “You are allowed to feel more than one thing at once. What have I always told you, whether in class or in this office, about oversimplifying historical persons and events?”

Keith shrugs. “Not to do it? That it’s irresponsible and academically lazy? That it misrepresents history, and it ultimately causes way more trouble than it’s worth? That if I owe it to myself and my work _not_ to give in to the temptation to make things easier and more palatable? Do I need to keep going or are you gonna—”

“No. You have named all of the most relevant points.” But still, Kolivan’s sigh does nothing for Keith’s nerves. “I would offer that same advice about approaching the matter at hand, Keith.”

“I don’t think I’m oversimplifying _anything_. I just want everything to _make sense_. Which, at the moment? It really fucking doesn’t.” The ceiling doesn’t have a magical guidebook to getting through this conversation. But as Keith mulls his options over, he finds it easier to look at than Kolivan. “I mean, is it so bad that I want everything to make sense? That I’d like some kind of explanation for how the Hell my Mom could have been Galra enough that I’m _thirty-six percent_ Galra—”

“Hazarding a guess, based on what little you have previously mentioned to me about her,” Kolivan says so lightly that it makes Keith’s fingers twitch. “I would suppose that your Mother had mixed Galra and Korean heritage on both sides of her own family.”

As it this calling-out weren’t twisting a knife in Keith’s stomach enough on its own, Kolivan’s borderline bored tone makes it crystal clear that Keith did not give Kolivan the right answer. Every word is the verbal equivalent of a shrug and they slam into Keith until he wishes that he could just throw up instead. Vomiting in Kolivan’s trash-can, no matter how exposed and vulnerable it left Keith, would be easier than this. It’d probably even settle his nerves enough for him to fake his way through the conversation as if he _doesn’t_ have certain wires in his head that are irreparably crossed wrong.

God, this is just Keith’s luck too, isn’t it. He _wanted_ to put more effort into feigning normalcy, even knowing that Kolivan is one of the few people who doesn’t care that Keith will never be normal. He _wanted_ to force himself to make some semblance of eye-contact, no matter how much he doesn’t like doing it it. Even looking at Kolivan’s forehead or the bridge of his nose would be infinitely better than sulking over here on his sofa like a petulant child, glaring at his ceiling as if Keith doesn’t know that Kolivan has no obligation to do anything like this for him. But the guilty twisting in the pit of his stomach hurts more than enough _without_ looking Kolivan in the face and feeling his (probable, hypothetical but, if you ask Keith, _likely_ ) disappointment.

With a pensive hum, Kolivan adds, “However, one thing of which I am certain? Is that you could have put that together without my assistance. So, I cannot help but wonder if you are, once again, talking around the _real_ point that is currently tripping you up.”

Sighing like he didn’t get a Ferrari and a unicorn for his super sixteenth birthday, Keith tries again to dredge up something better: “I don’t care if the answers are simple, okay? I just want them to _exist_ , and right now? They don’t. Right now, I don’t even know where to look for any clues about what I should feel, or what I should do. Everything’s just, like…”

Despite the whining protests in the back of his head, Keith drags his head back up and takes in Kolivan’s face again. He has no idea what to make of the tightness in Kolivan’s jaw, of the way that his knuckles have gone white from how hard he’s clenching his hands together, or the way he’s slouching as if carrying something so heavy that it’d make Atlas grateful he only had to hold up the Heavens. Fitting, in a way — Kolivan probably doesn’t think of Keith as a burden. If Keith were to say anything, then Kolivan would probably insist that Keith is distinctly not a burden, that Kolivan cares about him and wants to see him prosper and make the most of himself in life.

But if there’s any other word for what Keith is — any word that encapsulates his essence as a person more effectively than _“burden”_ — then Keith would really appreciate hearing it himself for once. He’d appreciate having someone tell him what it is and maybe making him believe them.

Whatever’s going on inside of Kolivan’s mind, though, he gives Keith a sympathetic nod. He doesn’t bullshit Keith by trying to smile, but there’s a warm gleam in his expression that makes Keith want to say whatever he can to put Kolivan at ease. Except he couldn’t lie while doing that, or Kolivan would know, and that would almost definitely look like further evidence that Keith has let his life turn into a bigger mess than it already was. Which would be fair enough because he kinda _has_. The glaring problem with that is: if clever lies, sketchy half-truths, and Shiro-worthy equivocations wouldn’t give Kolivan any relief, that leaves Keith with something he doesn’t know he has on-hand.

Truth — fucking Hell, if Keith could fight Oscar Wilde for his crack about truth being rarely pure and never simple, then he absolutely would. He tightens his fingers into a fist, unfurls them so slowly that he can feel every joint clicking into place. But he doesn’t dig his nails into his palm. Not today. It might ground Keith better than anything else, but if it’s a form of self-harm like Shiro said, then Keith can’t imagine Kolivan would get any comfort out of seeing Keith do that to himself.

“I don’t even know how to be _Korean_ , okay,” Keith makes himself spit out before he can force Kolivan to break the silence between them again. “I’ve spent my whole life thinking that’s all I was because that’s what I remembered my Mom and her Aunt saying. But I don’t remember Mom or Dad teaching me anything about being Korean. Aunt Hana only taught me about being my Mom’s son — like, in retrospect? She hated most little boys, and I’m pretty sure she only thought I was any better than the other boys my age because I reminded her so much of my Mom. But she didn’t ever tell me _why_ , and she said she didn’t know anything about my Mom’s knife, and everything I learned from the parental figures in the foster system was, like…”

_Fuck me, why am I babbling about this so much? It’s not like it’s new. I’m used to this, I don’t **need** to talk about it. Anyway, Kolivan didn’t sign up to listen to this bullshit, and it’s not part of his job to deal with anything like this from me, and it’s a total tangent from what we’re supposed to be talking about_ —

But by the same token, Kolivan isn’t giving Keith any indication that he needs to stop. The way that Kolivan’s lips quirk up almost looks like a smile, and he nods at Keith to keep going.

Hugging himself, Keith shrugs. “Everything that I learned in the foster system was a bunch of garbage. Y’know, like, ‘It’s totally acceptable for this geriatric abusive white man to kick you around and call you a Chinese Communist like you have any idea what that means, just because you happen to exist in his vicinity.’” He flips his bangs off his face so he doesn’t need to stop hugging himself. “Or like, ‘It’s gay people’s fault that God’s a fucking voyeuristic pervert who can’t keep His nose out of their fucking bedrooms like who they have sex with is any of His business.’”

That makes Kolivan snort. For a brief moment, he gives Keith a smile. Weirder still, it looks genuine. Appreciative. Open and warm and so many things that Keith _knows_ that Kolivan is capable of being, when he feels like it — but it’s still _weird_ to have them right in front of him like this. Practically skin-crawling levels of weird, at that. Aside from being uncharacteristic behavior for Kolivan, it makes Keith’s memory prick up, reminding him of Antok said before about Kolivan treating Keith like a son and not like an advisee.

“Don’t let me stop you from sharing,” Kolivan tells Keith, waving a hand as if telling Keith to get on with the rest of what he wanted to say. “While I find it encouraging that your sense of humor remains intact, I do not want to derail the conversation.”

“I mean, I didn’t really have anything else to add about that _specifically_? And I _did_ tell my one ultra-Baptist foster family that their version of God sounded like a pervert—”

“I would not put something like that past you in the slightest—”

“If they didn’t want me calling God a voyeur, they shouldn’t have told me that He watches people fuck and masturbate and stuff like that.”

But that’s not the point so, with a sigh and a shake of his head, Keith makes himself switch tracks to where they’re supposed to be: “This just feels like… Yet another thing that I don’t know what to do with and don’t know how to be, right? Like, I’m autistic and I’ll probably never know how to act like other people well enough to perfectly fit in. I don’t know how to be Korean. It’s nice to see Japanese on the DNA test, since my Dad being part-Japanese would answer where the Hell _Kogane_ came from and why every other Kogane I’ve ever found has been Japanese — but I don’t know how to be Japanese, either, and as for _Galra_ …”

Keith pries one arm off of his chest so he can knead at his temple. “It’s, like? Maybe, if not for the knife and the Blade of Marmora, being part-Galra would be the same thing as being part-Korean, part-Japanese, and part-generically mixed British Isles white boy. Maybe, it’d be the same level of, ‘I have no idea what my heritage really _means_ or how to be _literally any_ of these things.’ If I didn’t have my Mom’s old knife, and if I didn’t know that it’s special, and then there’s my name, like? They could’ve given me a Korean name. A Japanese name other than _Kogane_. Fuck if I know where they got _Keith_ from, but they stuck me with _Sarkance_ for a middle name, so it’s obviously _important_ —”

“Traditional Galran naming customs would treat _Sarkance_ as your personal name,” Kolivan explains gently. “Many people who have mixed Galran heritage do not follow this tradition, as do many Galra who have become more Americanized. However, tradition treats the middle name as someone’s _real_ name, while the first name is often given in honor of an ancestor, a maternal family, or someone whom new parents consider family in all but blood.”

“So, what? My parents had some dead friend called Keith and named me after him?”

“I rather doubt it. You would have been addressed as _Sarkance_ , had they intentionally attempted to follow old Galran traditions. Given the age when you entered the foster system, you would have been old enough to insist on that being _your_ name and to request that people call you that, rather than _Keith_.” Kolivan huffs and quirks his shoulders again. “I would guess that, for whatever reason, your parents simply followed more Americanized naming customs and meant for _Keith_ to be your personal name.”

“Well, lucky for them, I don’t think a different name would feel like _me_ anymore.” Rolling his eyes is probably uncalled for, but so help him, it feels _right_. “Because _Keith_ really does sound like a name they pulled out of their asses while he was shit-faced and she was too pregnant and sleep-deprived to tell him, ‘No.’”

Fuck him, Keith should keep looking in Kolivan’s direction. He knows that he owes this to Kolivan because it’s respectful and it’s polite, especially when Kolivan doesn’t owe him any of this. But trying to meet his eyes now, Keith’s nerves feel like they’re on fire. Letting his head droop onto the back of the couch and looking at the ceiling again doesn’t take the edge off nearly enough to make a positive difference. At least closing his eyes helps Keith breathe a little easier, which helps him clear his head enough to fight himself into submission and bite out—

“I’m just… I feel like?” _Well, I feel that mental static again, but that isn’t helpful._ “Why me?”

Kolivan considers that in silence, and when Keith doesn’t go on, he sighs, “Elaborate.”

Jerking his shoulders, Keith tries not to groan. He fails, and that should probably make him feel ashamed. Mostly, it makes him feel like he’s choking on a particularly upset frog. And a bit like he’s being unfairly sullen and acting like a teenage idiot. And like maybe he should look up and learn the Galran word for _“petulant,”_ for all the times like this when he deserves it — when he has unquestionably earned it through his conduct and his behaviors — but he’s still tired of calling himself that one word in particular. Curling his one arm around his stomach, Keith massages the other’s fingers harder into his temple.

“Okay, well? At the risk of sounding like some spoiled kid with an entitlement complex the size of Siberia?” Keith huffs, making himself meet Kolivan’s eyes again. “It’s not _fair_ , okay? I _know_ that nobody promised life would be fair to anybody. I _know_ that, relative to how unfair things could be? I could be doing a lot worse than, ‘Oh, my Mom left me and said she’d come back but never did. Then, my Dad ditched me with my great-aunt and said that _he’d_ come back, but never did. Then, I constantly drew the short straw in getting placed and pretty much every foster family I landed with either didn’t want me or they were abusive shit-holes. _Then_ , I got tossed on my ass at age eighteen and made it to Chicago and fell in love with the guy who, at the time, was my only friend. But he was in love with an abusive douchebag, and trapped in a fight between said asshole, his addictions, and his eating disorder, and things fell apart in one of the worst ways possible especially because I _lost_ him for so long. And so on, and so forth, ad nauseam’ — I _know_ that things could be going so much worse for me than they are and have gone.”

Pausing is partly a function of giving Kolivan the chance to get a word in edgewise, because he almost definitely has something to say. It’s equally likely to be something that Keith doesn’t want to hear, but given how the past few weeks have gone, that probably means Keith needs to hear it. On the other hand, stopping for a moment is partly a function of Keith needing to catch his fucking breath after a rant like that. Not that the former notion matters much, when Kolivan mostly sits there in front of Keith, tilting his head inquisitively and nodding like he understands and expects Keith to keep going.

“Look, I don’t want to poke some metaphysical bear and call down a bunch of karmic wrath on my own head by saying something like this, but…” Keith ducks his chin. He shakes his head, so that he won’t be too much at risk of hiding in his bangs, but it doesn’t make him feel any better and for all he knows, it isn’t really helping. “It’s not _fair_ , okay? It just _isn’t_. I just…”

“If I may interject with a question? Meant not to criticize, and hopefully not to lead you to any conclusions. I am merely curious and trying to help you consider other perspectives.” Kolivan waits for Keith to nod that this question sounds fine by him, then asks, “You said before that you know who you are, and that the confirmation of any Galran heritage would not change this. Now that you _have_ learned that you are part-Galra, do you feel differently?”

“Yeah, sure, that’s a good word for it. Understatement of the year, but…” Keith has words for this, he knows he does. He just needs to dig for them a bit before he comes up with, “I mean, the extent of the denial that I’ve been up to in the past few months? Making me question how much I actually know myself to begin with—”

“Denial does not mean that you don’t know yourself, Keith—”

“That’s fine. It makes sense enough, okay? But it’s still feeling like… Do I really? If I can head-fuck myself so much, then maybe…?” Holding onto himself, tighter than a straitjacket, still leaves Keith with an uncertain feeling scratching at the back of his throat and the inside of his chest. He wishes that he’d just vomit already, but it probably wouldn’t help, so he makes himself say, “On another side, though? It’s like, if there’s something that was _so important_ to my Mom — even if I can’t _assume_ it was important to her, it sure feels like it was — but then she didn’t tell me _anything_ , and it’s all so…”

Thumping his head on the back of the sofa doesn’t help Keith shake any of his internal wires loose, but _something_ clicks enough for him to get out, “I don’t know what being Galra meant to her at all. I know her knife was important to her. Enough that she told me to take care of it, not to lose it, never let anyone take it from me. She said wielding it was an enormous responsibility—”

“It would have been even _without_ the context of it being a Marmoran blade,” Kolivan points out, almost (but not quite) gently. “You are talking about an especially deadly weapon. There are several reasons why you needed to get a permit in order to legally keep yours on your person.”

“I know, and it’s not like… Or I don’t _think_ it’s like she skimped on that? Not that she actually taught me much about it, how could she have? But…” Keith thumps his head again. Ignoring the pointed throat-clearing out of Kolivan, he goes for a third because fuck it. This doesn’t hurt, but the impact makes Keith feel _something_ that drags him back into his body. Keith needs to keep himself as grounded as possible.

A few moments drag by, long and silent, full of Keith turning things around in his head. Pressing his tongue hard against the backs of his teeth and refusing to let himself say anything. Running his mouth off would make everything so much worse — if Keith starts popping off without even _trying_ to control himself, exacerbating things will become unavoidable. He aches with each deep breath that he forces into himself, but at least Kolivan doesn’t push him. He waits for Keith to pick his head up and nod that he thinks he’s ready to go on, thinks that he has his best guess on what to say.

“I know who I am in _some_ ways,” Keith says, and God, his voice doesn’t _tremble_ — but it’s so tight that Keith wishes it _would_. It’s making him sound like a goddamn liar. “I know that I can be stubborn, and closed-off, and I can have some serious impulse control issues. I can take people’s heads off in ways they don’t deserve. I know some people think I’m clever and talented and resilient, even if I don’t always feel that way. But…”

Although Keith would prefer to leave his head where it is, he makes himself look Kolivan in the eye one more time. “Then there are other ways of knowing myself, and other things that I just don’t know at all?” He has that much out there, so he can keep going. He _needs_ to get the rest out, needs to say, “It’s like? I barely understand how to be a _person_. I’ve got a factory defect that means I sure don’t get how to be a person who fits in with other people. But then, I don’t know where my parents came from or how different parts of their histories impacted them, or what they mean for me. Aside from… I don’t even know?”

For all he hopes that Kolivan might jump in and figure out whatever it is that Keith wants to say, that doesn’t happen. Grumbling, Keith tugs on his bangs and scrunches up his face. He shuts his eyes. Focuses on his breathing, the way that Kolivan told him to do before. Twists his fingers in his hair, even though pulling on his hair probably isn’t the best thing to do for himself right now. But it doesn’t hurt enough to count it as self-harm, if anybody cares what Keith thinks.

“Alienation, I guess?” he finally blurts out. Once the word’s burst out of his throat like that, Keith needs a moment to process the fact that he’s said it and what it might or might not mean. Even what it means to _him_ doesn’t spell itself out too clearly, and he’s the one who said it, but fuck, he needs to keep this moving or he might not start things up again— “It all feels like? I know that no one’s trying to alienate me. But there are still these _walls_ up between me and so much things. Other people. My parents. Knowing pieces of my history that I _want_ to know about — and not just my personal history, either, but like? Where I fit into everything. What’s the context, what bigger stories am I a part of, how am I shaped by these things—”

“What makes being part- _Galra_ any different from being part-Korean or part-Japanese?” The light glints off Kolivan’s glasses and nearly casts a pall over his face. If he’s nervous about this answer, then maybe he doesn’t want Keith to put that together. “From my perspective, you are giving special attention to that point in your genetic profile.”

“Yeah, I _am_ and it’s just? I guess part of it’s that I know more about Galran history and culture than Korean or Japanese history? But…” Keith shrugs, which doesn’t make any of this feel less like someone’s digging a stiletto into his Adam’s apple and grating his nerves like they’re the world’s finest goddamn cheese — but somehow, he bites out, “Being Galra feels like it was _important_ to my Mom. Except she didn’t…? She left me with a knife and a Galra middle name and no idea what it all _means_. And I want to _know_ something more about it, because all that it means to me personally is, like…”

Keith doesn’t let slip a noise that wants to be a sob.

He doesn’t cut himself off with a strained, damp sound that refuses to let him bite it down.

His eyes don’t sting and his vision does not mist over, much less start wobbling before him. He won’t express anything like that because there wouldn’t be a reason for it at the moment, absolutely none — except for the fact that his body disagrees with him.

Sure, his eyes leave well enough alone, refuse to even sting at him like they have notions of tearing up on him. But his throat doesn’t care for Keith’s comfort; it aches like he has a gremlin choking and straining against him, trying to claw its way out into the air. His hands tremble like they might never settle down again and tightening his grip around one elbow doesn’t get Keith anything but pain. Worse, the damn pain won’t decide whether it wants to pierce him or throb. Something blazing hot thrashes inside Keith’s chest, curling up around his lungs, strangling them with an unspoken promise to let up if Keith quits holding back and allows himself to break down in Kolivan’s office again.

Maybe if Rufus were here and unfathomably licking his cheek, Keith might get there. This time, though, he doesn’t have that utterly confusing gentleness. That kindness without any strings attached and unconditional belief that Keith deserves such affection. Kolivan’s hand lands on his shoulder, and as he sighs, he hangs onto Keith as if he has every intent of acting like a human shield — against what, Keith has no idea. Too many possibilities for him to feel certain, betting on any of them. But it doesn’t feel wrong, not really, for Kolivan to put that offer on the table. Confusing, but no more than any other time when Kolivan’s softened up where Keith could see him do it.

Silently taking in his sober, understanding expression, Keith finds an easier time drawing in each breath, and dimly, he wonders if that was the point. If Kolivan’s trying to reach out to him, or make himself more accessible as a stable point within Keith’s world, or who even knows what else he could have in mind. Not that it necessarily matters, when Kolivan’s getting Keith’s nerves to settle. The pressure in his chest and throat remains, but it eases until Keith doesn’t feel so much like he’s going to explode. Things could still get better, but instead of threatening to blow Keith up, the tension nags at him like a sore throat — annoying as all get-out, but not so far gone in inflammation that it can truly fuck him up and there’s still time for Keith to intervene.

As Keith tries not to lose himself in the almost-calm, Kolivan hesitates as if he needs to consider these next words more than any others that he’s shared today. Or maybe like he expects Keith to pipe up again and protest, be a little hellion like they both know he can be.

When that doesn’t happen, he sighs, “What are you doing for the rest of this semester’s Fridays, excluding this week’s.”

Keith shakes his head with no real intent behind it. Doesn’t rid himself of the feeling like his brain’s gotten replaced by a humid, fog-encrusted swamp and sink-pits full of half-frozen molasses. But then there’s Kolivan, sitting there in front of Keith and frowning as if this answer has let him down in more ways than Keith can fathom. As if Kolivan could say that he isn’t mad, he’s disappointed, and tell the truth about that lack of anger, which would be even worse than the possible outcome where Keith went and got Kolivan fuming.

“I mean, I don’t have any specific plans,” he jumps in to clarify. “Like, Fridays are a day for reading, and sometimes getting kidnapped to dinner with Allura or Shiro, and doing laundry — I probably have to do that sooner rather than later, really, it’s been a while… Otherwise, though? They’re all open for anything until further notice. But I’m kinda wondering _why_ you’re asking?”

“Because I have an idea, if you would be amenable to it.”

As he gets a nod out of Keith, Kolivan nearly smiles. One of those warm glimmers comes back to his eyes, and because today hasn’t confused Keith enough just yet, this one looks like there’s a fire sparking up inside of Kolivan. Furrowing his brow happens without Keith meaning to do it, not least since this look makes more and more sense on Kolivan’s face, the more Keith takes it in — or anyway, Keith feels like he’s seeing shades of the Hell-raiser Kolivan was when he was Keith’s age. Between this downright _eager_ flicker and the sharp curve of his lips, Kolivan seems like he could suggest that they go plaster protest posters about the so-called _“gay cancer”_ all over the Upper East Side or slash a bunch of cop cars’ tires.

Unfortunately, Keith’s still lost on piecing together what the expression means right now, in this moment. Too many options come to mind, none of them seems any likelier than the others, and knowing Kolivan so well doesn’t provide him any clues that could help with the translation.

But Kolivan doesn’t give Keith enough time to ponder what it might be before he cuts in with, “This Friday, I will be in meetings and filing certain pieces of paperwork so that you will be listed as my official choice of teaching assistant—”

“I thought you weren’t allowed to make that call until you had everybody’s—”

“Keith, the reincarnations of Eugene V. Debs or Emma Goldman could submit their applications for my TA spot by Wednesday. Out of respect for protocol and in lip-service to fairness, I would review them. But those applicants would need to be exceptionally impressive for me to select them over you. You have worked for and earned my trust in your abilities. True, there have been plenty of qualified applicants — but _you_ are the one who deserves this opportunity the most. You have always been my first choice.”

Over the tops of his glasses, Kolivan stares at Keith in a way that refuses to let him think his advisor might be lying. He takes a deep breath before adding, “Given my position as your advisor, the meetings will largely consist of defending my choice to the Deans and the rest of the department—”

“You’re probably only gonna get resistance out of Raht and Prorok, and he might not even—”

“That is immaterial to our discussion, and I will handle it on Friday.” His grip tightens on Keith’s shoulder, falls just shy of starting to hurt. “Beginning _next_ Friday, however? I propose that we meet with each other and that you begin learning more about your Galran heritage. Officially, should anyone ask, we are simply giving extra attention to some of your studies and getting a head-start—”

“ _Un_ officially, though?” While he tries to unwrinkle his nose, Keith’s eyebrow arches of its own accord.

Kolivan shrugs as though this shouldn’t need to be a question. “Unofficially, we will be going off-campus, so that your education in Galran history and culture will not be _censored_ by Dean Zarkon’s stranglehold on what we are allowed to discuss on campus.”

That brief moment of inflection spells out everything Keith needs to know: the Blade of Marmora might not be _everything_ that Kolivan has in mind, but they’re definitely going to be a big part of it. Without hesitation, Keith agrees. Fuck, he’d clear every Friday for the rest of his life to get at something like this.

Patting Keith’s shoulder, Kolivan chuckles. “That will not be necessary,” he says. “For now? I am going down the hall and asking Antok for a copy of his second book on the Blades that you can keep. You, meanwhile, are going to send a text message to your beloved and/or Allura. Go have lunch with them before Antok’s class and try to clear your head.” 

*** * ***

Texting Allura and Shiro both proves easy enough, but Allura’s already having lunch with Shay, so Keith gives her a version of events where Kolivan suggested keeping her in the loop about what’s going on for him. He’s opening up to her about things that Kolivan did not specifically mention or instruct Keith to discuss, but that he also probably wanted Keith to bring up over any given lunch with her. Allura deserves to know what’s going on, with how much she wants to help Keith. Moreover, he _wants_ for her to know.

With Shiro, though, Keith has more luck. He’s free. He’d love to see Keith for lunch. He’s on his way over shortly after Keith texts him — but in the name of clearing his head, Keith takes the stairs down from the twelfth floor. Instead of going outside, he gets off at the right floor and wanders to Antok’s classroom. He collects himself enough to shoot Shiro a text, telling him where to go, but even this feels like a labor befitting Hercules. This absolutely minor, nothing little thing that shouldn’t make any kind of difference or require any special effort, because Shiro’s going out of his way for Keith and he deserves to know what’s going on.

As Keith sinks to the floor, shuts his eyes, and puts his head between his knees, he’s breathing fine. Each inhale goes into him fine, and when his body’s finished with the air, it comes back out with no trouble. Except this makes no sense, because Keith’s head feels like someone has a hand on the back of his neck, holding him underwater. Every thought feels like it’s coming to Keith in a language that’s beyond all human comprehension, so of course he doesn’t understand it.

Keith doesn’t know how long he sits there, on the floor outside of Antok’s classroom, trying to drag his brain back onto dry land. At some point, though, somebody sits next to him. Softly, Shiro asks if Keith’s okay with being touched. When he nods, Shiro puts his hand on Keith’s shoulder.

“What’s going on?” He gives Keith a squeeze, kneading his thumb along Keith’s bicep.

“It’s stupid,” Keith mutters. “I looked at the time on my phone on the way downstairs. Then, I didn’t know whether or not we’d have time for lunch before class. Because, I don’t know, what if…? Not even, ‘What if anything in particular,’ just… _What if_.” Sighing, Keith bucks his shoulder against Shiro’s hand and slumps against his side instead. His eyes itch and sting with an unspoken threat to make Keith humiliate himself, but they won’t water and get it over with, already. “And then I didn’t know what to do, except for text you so you wouldn’t worry.”

“I always worry about you, Keith.” Without waiting for a prompt, Shiro wraps his arm around Keith. “Even before you found me again, if I wasn’t trying to tell myself that you were better off without me? Then I was worrying about you instead—”

“I don’t know what you’re going for right now? But this isn’t really _helping_ —”

“Sorry, I’m just…” Shiro sighs. “Whether I worry about you or not? That’s on me, not you. If you want me to worry about you less—”

“Of course I do. I wish you didn’t have to worry _at all_ —”

“Then the best thing you can do about that, about any of it? Is to be yourself and be honest with me—”

Clearing his throat, Keith intends to cut Shiro off and get a word in edgewise. Because he knows that Shiro means what he’s saying, and right now, Keith doesn’t know how to handle that. All the words make sense on their own, individually. But putting them together into a coherent idea feels completely beyond his grasp, for now.

Keith does _not_ mean for his interjection to become a sob. Once it starts, though, there’s no stopping the waterworks. All Keith can do is angle himself toward Shiro, try to hide his face so no one else has to see this. So nobody else _can_ see Keith in such a vulnerable state, much less find some way to turn it against Keith — which they _would_. Maybe they wouldn’t. Maybe _some_ people wouldn’t, at least. But most people _would_ use Keith’s crying to tear him down, he’s _certain_ of it and, as bone-deep as that certainty goes, Keith doesn’t even know where it came from or why he feels it so strongly. Same as why, once again, he doesn’t know why he’s crying. Not entirely.

With a soft, fond sigh, Shiro eases Keith’s legs up onto his own lap and cuddles Keith close. When Keith buries his face in Shiro’s neck, Shiro squeezes his knee and strokes his hair. Whispers to him that it’s okay, Keith’s safe and he’s going to be fine. _“Just get it out, Keith. It’s better for you not to keep things down… I’ve got you. Get it out…”_

Keith doesn’t know how much time it takes for him to stop. When he’s done, he nudges at Shiro and whines. Can’t make himself say anything, but after a few profs at his shoulder, Shiro nods. He stands and gives Keith a hand. Pulls him to his feet, then picks up his backpack for him too.

As Keith directs them to the vending machines, over across from the elevators, he keeps his head down and Shiro keeps his arm around Keith’s shoulders. Wasting money on bottled water seems more than a bit excessive, even when Shiro shells out the buck-seventy-five for him, but the drinking fountains in Montgomery Hall are, even on their best days, _suspicious_. Keith doesn’t feel up to pressing his luck, not with water that semi-regularly tastes like Dean Zarkon might have let Honerva test out something unholy on the student body. Proving something like that would surely be next to impossible — not least since Keith is vaguely aware of how ridiculous an idea this is — but as he sinks to the floor outside of Antok’s classroom again, Keith doesn’t care.

After a few minutes (and downing about half the bottle of water), Keith slouches into Shiro’s side, drops his head onto Shiro’s shoulder.

“How much does your therapist know about me already,” he says as Shiro curls an arm around him again. “I wonder… Probably everything, right?”

Shiro gives Keith a pensive hum and squeezes his shoulder as he mulls that over. “Well. Ulaz doesn’t know _everything_ about you? Not literally,” he supposes. But it takes another moment’s consideration before Shiro adds, “He _does_ know a lot about you, though. I mean, the point of therapy is to focus on yourself and your own problems, but…” Protectively, he squeezes Keith’s bicep. “I’ve brought you up a lot. Sometimes even when I was trying not to. Because I still thought, y’know… I’d probably never see you again, and that thought hurt too much, but I couldn’t keep it down.”

“Well, if it’s any consolation? Probably not, but… Allura and me spent last Christmas trying to enjoy it while she kept checking her phone for updates about Carrie Fisher. Then she got the news about George Michael instead, and…” Keith shrugs. “I couldn’t tell her why that shook me up so badly. No easy way to explain _us_ to my ex-girlfriend turned best friend, which was a big reason why I cared. Beyond, y’know, ‘He was a person and people dying is generally sad, especially when it’s sudden and they’re pretty young.’”

“I didn’t even really process the George Michael and Carrie Fisher news until, like… Two days later? But I was _exhausted_. Completely.” Huffing softly, Shiro rests his cheek on Keith’s head. “I went to Florida with Hunk and Lance. Spent Christmas Eve helping Lance and one of his sisters wrap presents for all the kids. Then, it’s almost three AM, I’m bunking down with Lance like I’ve done since we got there, and Lotor calls—”

“Oh, Jesus _Christ_ , did he get himself arrested or jealous of platonic bed-sharing or something—”

“No, he wanted phone-sex. A distraction while he was stuck with his family.” From the way that Shiro cringes, that might have been worse than Lotor calling because he got arrested. “He’d done this every night since he left for Illinois. And one time at about ten-thirty in the morning. So, Lance wakes up before I can go talk to Lotor in the backyard like I’d _been_ doing — which had gotten Lance and Hunk thinking maybe I was purging in the middle of the night again — then…”

Shiro chuckles, which seems ill-matched to the situation until he explains, “Lance grabs my phone. Tells Lotor off about how I need a decent amount of sleep for my meds to work right, and how he knows that Lotor knows this. Then, threatens to rip him apart with his bare hands if Lotor doesn’t stop doing this.”

“Sounds about like what I would’ve done,” Keith mutters.

Which is true, but it’s also not the point that Keith wanted to get them onto, originally. He hates to butt his head up at Shiro’s cheek and squirming away a bit — not enough for Shiro to let go of him but Keith gives him permission to keep holding on like this. Shiro’s embrace is helping keep Keith grounded, making him feel like he can actually get through what he needs to ask. Cold guilt still twists through the pit of his stomach over adjusting his position, though, and doesn’t settle down until he blinks up at Shiro’s warm smile.

“Are… Were you serious,” Keith says softly. “About helping me pay for sessions with Ulaz until I get my health insurance?”

Keith already knows the answer to this question. He knows the answer that he’d get if he asked it of Allura, too.

But he needs the rush of relief that comes when Shiro tells him, “Of course I was. Anything that can help you get well, if I can do it, then I want to.” Keith also needs the flood of warmth that washes over him as Shiro nudges at his forehead, promising, “Whatever you need. As many times as it takes.”

Sighing — he can’t help sighing at the moment, couldn’t hold it back to save his life — Keith lets himself smile. He doesn’t know what to say, or what he even _could_ say about any of this. Knowing what he’s feeling might help, being able to put a name on the storm inside of him. In some ways, though, it doesn’t matter. Not when Keith is here in Shiro’s arms, trailing his fingers through Shiro’s black bangs and tucking them behind his ear, wondering if this therapy thing might be a mistake but maybe it’ll help him like it’s done for Shiro and Allura and so many others, and Keith won’t know one way or the other unless he tries—

Above them, someone clears their throat, jerking Keith back to the real world before he can either find something to say or decide to kiss Shiro in the middle of the hallway. Furrowing his brow, Keith blinks up at Antok, who looks back with one of his practically illegible, scrutinizing expressions.

“Keith,” he sighs as if channeling Kolivan’s exhaustion. “Take today off.”

Keith wrinkles his nose. “Huh?”

“Professor’s orders. You’re the only student who still has a perfect attendance record in my class—”

“I’ve missed classes with Kolivan and Thace—”

“But not with _me_ , which is my point. You look exhausted and all cried out. Take a mental health day, you deserve it.” Face flat, Antok looks to Shiro, considers him for a moment. “Can you make sure he gets over to health services later?”

“This is Antok,” Keith cuts in to explain for Shiro. “Kolivan’s husband.”

“And the man who’s wondering whether his favorite _krahvenkhil_ intended to understate how much you need a day off.”

“Galran… term of endearment,” Keith hisses at Shiro’s bemused expression.

“Did… I’m sorry, sir, but…” Shiro tilts his head. “Did I mishear or did you just call your husband, ‘fuckhead’ in Galran?”

Antok smirks. “Keith was right. It’s a term of endearment for us.”

Shiro nods in understanding, but makes quick time about swearing that he’s taking Keith to lunch, then he’ll make sure Keith gets to his follow-up appointment. Which sounds so easy when he says it like that, but it’s enough to make Antok smile and bid them a good afternoon. When Keith’s ready, Shiro helps him back up to his feet again, takes his backpack, scoops Keith into his side and holds him closely but not too tightly. In the elevator, he snickers fondly at Keith wriggling two fingers through one of his belt-loops.

“Trying to suggest ideas for after lunch?” Shiro prods with a gentle grin. “Or are you making sure I can’t get lost again?”

As Shiro steers them toward the door and the outside world, Keith shakes his head. “Making sure I can’t forget you’re here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand it’s over!!!
> 
> —At least, this particular part of the story is, aside from my desire to go back and write a better summary than the one I threw together at some ridiculous hour of the morning, right after season three dropped, because I was grumpy about Shiro cutting the long hair and did a thing. The gang will be back for more in the as yet unnamed second part, which will be grouped together **[with the rest of the overall series](http://archiveofourown.org/series/838770)** — though I’ve also got a zine fic, a big bang fic, and a thesis paper to finish, first.
> 
> That being said: In closing, I just want to take a moment to thank all of you for reading this overgrown monster that I call my baby. To everyone who’s commented, left kudos, bookmarked it, or rec’d it anywhere, thank you so, _so_ much (—and if you’ve rec’d this fic or seen it rec’d, then please let me know so I can thank the reccer and show them some appreciation).
> 
> A very special thanks also goes to **@ajhebard** on tumblr, who drew **[this amazing art of Shiro in a Pansy Division crop-top](https://idontgiveaquiznak.tumblr.com/post/168293654818/autisticsheith-autisticsheith-uh-i-have)** from the first chapter (and I can’t remember if I’ve linked it in an A/N yet or not, but either way: !!! seriously, this is some cute-ass Shiro art, and I still scream internally every time I look at it).
> 
> Extra shout-outs of thanks go to everyone who’s listened to me babble about this fic for the past several months and/or offered me support or help with getting it written, including but by no means limited to:
> 
>   * **Nerni/xyriath** (who enabled the original idea of, “punk AU with long-haired Shiro, and his and Keith’s meet-cute is when Keith comes to yell at the band for keeping him awake,” back about an hour-and-a-half before Keith and Shiro took the hard left that led to the rest of the fic’s existence);  
> 
>   * **Alex/inklingdancer** (who’s been invaluable and so helpful as a listening ear, sounding board for ideas about this fic and its overall verse [in particular about certain parts involving Lotor/Shiro and Sendak/Shiro + Haxus], and general source of friendship and encouragement — seriously, Alex is so great, they’re amazing ♡);  
> 
>   * **Acier** (who has also listened to so much babbling, whether it was about how Shiro and Keith love each other but aksdkKSDFJHD GODDAMN, mutual pining is frustrating to write, or the story of how you can chart the evolution of Antok and Kolivan’s relationship through how they mention each other in their acknowledgments sections [and sometimes Kolivan’s old activist zines);  
> 
>   * **Noirsongbird** , **Gecko/lostemotion** , **Blue/QueerBluenoser** , **Aurum/aurumdalseni/kyo_chan** , **Letterblade** , **Alex/samscharmander** , and **“Not the Alex you’re looking for”** (for being sweet listeners, A+ enablers, and such good friends);  
> 
>   * **Millie/onlyapapermoon** , **Theneverbird** , **tootsonnewts** , **machidieles** , **MoreThanSlightly/cadignan** , **pineapplebot** , **punkrockmanpain/idontgiveaquiznak** , **AngelaLives** , **So-Chintzy/HausenButter** , and **@safeautistickeith** on tumblr (for comments and having chats — here, on tumblr, and/or on Discord — that I kept looking back to, both for a pick-me-up when I started lagging in the writing process, and for ideas. Also, for periodically getting TL;DR responses to their comments, some of which took the form of multi-comment metas, because…… I just had a lot of feelings?);  
> 
>   * —and the generous support of viewers like you. By which I mean, “I just feel the need to thank all of you for reading again, because really: I know it’s trite, but it means the world to me that you’ve all read this fic (and I seriously hope none of you tried to stay up all night with it because…… no, please go sleep, this is a door-stopper and sleep is good for you).”
> 

> 
> And skdfkh, god, I know that I’m absolutely forgetting someone (probably multiple someones) in this, and I am so, so sorry for that. All I have to say for myself about that lapse in memory is that I’m feeling a lot of things right now, and am more than a bit frazzled about finally posting the last chapter of this fic. There are so, so many people to thank, and I wouldn’t have gotten this done without their support, encouragement, enablement, and friendship. ♡
> 
> Until part two: thank you all for reading and for everything, and I hope to see you next time for (among other things) Keith and Allura learning how to be part of a fam with the others, Kolivan “totally not treating Keith like a son,” Lotor trying to be Keith’s part-Galra Regina George, Sendak, Keith’s dad, confusing therapy acronyms, and Shiro getting cock-blocked by Aunt Satomi’s cat. ♡


End file.
